


Human Incarnate

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angels, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demons, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Human AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Olive Oil, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Skips, alternate universe – humans, brief descriptions of death, historical to modern, mentions of biblical characters, mentions of historical characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 04:22:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 24,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21265004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: A Principality and a Traitor meet in the Garden. They do not do as commanded and thus find themselves punished in a most unique way. Throughout it all, they somehow find a way to find each other, to join each other, to be with each other. As friends, enemies, lovers, killers. All of it. Through thick and thin they endure their punishments because, at the end of the day, there’s an Apocalypse to stop and two corporations to ruin—all they have to do is survive. Easy right? Not when you forget every time it isn’t.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ace Omens: *makes a server challenge for October of amnesia for a member of the Ineffables*  
Me: that sounds nice but I'm busy  
Also me: *five days before the end of October* I feel like writing for the server challenge
> 
> Yes, I'm a dumbass. A dumbass who writes fic for a challenge with literally no time to write it lmao. Where's the fun in not doing that otherwise?

** _Heaven, Year 0 Anno Mundi (4004 BC):_ **

Eden is lovely. It has to be. But with the creation of man and woman, Adam and Eve, Eden becomes less lovely and more flawed. In the eyes of angels that is. Angels who will not Speak This Thought Aloud for She will Punish Them. But though they may see it as flawed with Adam and Eve in its walls, they see the act of a Principality showing kindness to the enemy and gifting a holy blade to mortals as something _worse_. 

A sin. 

An angel who sins and argues with heaven about it? That is no angel. 

Gabriel and Michael cannot force the guardian of the Eastern Gate to Fall, that is something only She is able to do, but they can punish the angel for being so kind to humanity. By making him join it. 

"You will be mortal for however long it takes for you to repent for your sins against heaven," Gabriel declares to the angel tied down to the chair he's been stuck in since his arrest. "However many generations it is until the point when humanity's hour of judgement arrives. That is when you may permanently become an angel again if it is so wished." 

Gabriel's language is very precise, never does he call upon God or reference Her in his judgement of the Principality. To do so would be to draw Her attention to the punishment. Gabriel and Michael both fear She has allowed this offence against heaven to happen and don't wish to actually find out for sure. If She has allowed it, even planned for it, then their actions would be counter to Her Will and that is not a desirable place to be after the war. 

So the Principality is cast out of heaven into mortal form four hundred years after Adam and Eve first left the garden, blessed to live a mortal life with no knowledge of heaven or their own power. 

But even as a mortal, an angel is still an angel. 

And the same holds true for demons who vaguely sauntered downward to a different life. 

* * *

** _Somewhere between Heaven and Hell, Year 0 Anno Mundi (4004 BC):_ **

Hell offers no kindness to traitors, least of all traitors like him. They don’t kill him because he’s strong and has potential, because their King decides _no, let him live, but make him suffer_. So Beelzebub checks in with heaven to enquire about what they’re doing with _their _little traitor. What the Duke of Hell finds out is surprisingly devious of heaven.

“You made him _human_?”

Gabriel shrugs. “We can’t kill him for minor infractions, the Metatron said we couldn’t,” the archangel explains and he doesn’t look pleased about it. Beelzebub is viciously amused at the displeasure of the archangel who took _great pleasure _in casting out the Fallen on Her orders. “So making him human gets him out of our way and we don’t need to keep track of him since he’ll just end up back here every time his mortal form dies.”

“That’ll be every century right?” Beelzebub asks, trying for innocent but they’re curious and _thinking_. Gabriel nods. “Be nice if it’d take longer.”

“It would,” Gabriel sighs. “But the _humans _wither and die so fast and even a century is better than having to constantly deal with him in a cell or office doing paperwork. Heaven knows the bastard’s fastidious about that stuff.”

“Interesting.”

Beelzebub leaves heaven with an idea forming in their head but it’s an idea that takes a little bit of time to finish formulating—though the time it takes is equivalent to a second really, but time is strange for angels and demons in their respective domains, so it takes time in _hell_. When they do, they have the traitor brought to them, bloodied and weak.

“You’re being sentenced to being made mortal for as long as heaven punishes their own little traitor,” Beelzebub tells the traitor without preamble. “You won’t know you’re a demon, won’t know hell, but you _will _be expected to commit evil as a mortal. You’re Fallen and that means you are evil. Prove it as a mortal even if you’re awful at it as a demon and you might just be reinstated and not tortured every time you return from earth.”

The traitor is unceremoniously shoved into the most immediately available mortal form which, interestingly enough, is a child of Eve’s. Beelzebub doesn’t know what the child _was _destined for but with the traitor in its body, the Duke expects great evil, whether the traitor wants to commit it or not.

Their Lord is most pleased when Beelzebub informs them of the punishment the traitor has been given. They find it _most poetic_.

Beelzebub just thinks it’s evil. They’re not one for poetry.


	2. One

** _Outside Eden somewhere, Earth, year 12 Anno Mundi (3992 BC):_ **

Adam sighs at the behaviour of his sons. Eve says they'll outgrow their childishness but Adam doubts it. They have not been made by God and have not eaten of the Tree so their knowledge is lacking compared to Adam and Eve. They don't quite seem to understand that actions have consequences. 

Consequences like being confined to the cave for the rest of the day. 

"Abel started it!" Cain cries and Adam sighs again, a bit more loudly this time. "Why am I being made to clean the cave walls too?" 

"Because you both misbehaved," Adam answers tiredly. Children. Honestly. "You didn't listen to your mother or I and now we have a lion bothering us." 

"You can kill it with your sword though!" Cain whines and Adam blinks. 

He didn't tell his children he possessed a sword. Nor, Adam thinks, has Eve informed them. The sword is special, a secret. One neither boy knows of. 

At least, Adam hadn't _thought _they'd known about it. 

"How do you know about the sword?" Adam asks as measuredly as he can. Which, considering, is far more measured than he feels he ought to be. One of the boys has been snooping and that is beyond rude. It's _wrong_. 

Cain shrugs. "Dunno," the boy answers. "Just do. Always have."

Adam narrows his eyes at his eldest, disbelieving, and the First Man is about to lecture his child for not only lying but also moseying through other people's belongings when Eve steps up beside him and places a hand on her husband's arm. 

"In your dreams, Cain?" Adam's wife asks and Cain nods. "I see. Well, go and clean up for dinner. Tell your brother to also."

Cain _happily_ scurries off, pleased at both avoiding further cleaning and at the prospect of _food_ leaving Adam and Eve to stand together staring at the half-clean cave wall. 

"His dreams?" Adam asks his wife who sighs and turns to look at her husband. 

"They both dream of things, husband," Eve says and Adam frowns. "Things mortals should not dream of."

"What does that mean?" Adam doesn't understand. Are their children cursed by God for the sins of their parents? Do they dream of horrors and things beyond human comprehension because of what Adam and Eve did? "Are we to blame?" 

"No Adam." Eve shakes her head, giving her husband a gentle look. "Our children are not cursed because of us. They are not cursed because of _themselves_, this is something else." Eve's expression darkens. "A mother knows these things, husband."

Adam nods. Eve knows more than he for she is both Mother and the First to have eaten of the Tree. Her knowledge exceeds her husband's and so too does her understanding. Adam defers to Eve on this matter. 

"I believe you, wife," Adam assures though his frown remains. "I worry for our children however."

"As any father should," Eve murmurs, pressing into Adam's side and both seek affection from the other. "As our Creator does, even now."

Adam says nothing to that. Eve knows more than he. Eve knows this for fact but Adam can only _believe. _

"Will our children suffer for this?" 

Eve sighs. "Yes," she answers sadly. "They would have suffered regardless, but yes, they will suffer for this. They will suffer for a long time."

"We can do nothing?" 

"No."

Adam's heart breaks. His children. His poor children. "God be merciful to them," he whispers into Eve's hair. 

"She will be," Eve promises, voice barely audible against Adam's chest. "One day." 

* * *

** _Still outside Eden somewhere, Earth, Year 24 _ ** ** _Anno Mundi (3980 BC)_ ** ** _:_ **

Cain is hard at work on the farm, beating the vegetables he has been growing this past spring and summer into obedience for harvesting. It’s hard work but he enjoys it. Taking out his frustration on the plants is the easiest way not to murder his brother when Abel is being particularly annoying. Not that Cain would. Murder that is. He loves his brother dearly. He just wishes Abel wouldn’t be so- so _Able_.

Adam and Eve live a distance away, still in their cave but there’s a house attached to it now, made of mud and straw. Cain made it with his own hands while Abel figured out how to convince the goats to not eat the flowers Cain planted for their mother. Abel didn’t figure out how to stop the goats and Cain had watched his beloved yellow flowers be devoured by stinky goats.

Goats that always freak Cain out. Something about them reminds him of something he never wants to think about. Maybe it was their eyes? Cain’s own eyes were a bit strange, not quite like Abel’s or Adam and Eve’s. Cain’s tended towards a strange, murky yellow-green, the pupils more oval than round. It was slight and Cain goes out of his way to not let it stop him from loving his wife.

His darling wife who shows him unparalleled love and affection. She is, technically, a sister to him but that- well- Eve says not to think about it too much. So Cain tries not to. Unfortunately, Cain has always been a _thinker_. He always asks questions and is often the one who will question the will of God. Abel hates it when he does that, however. It upsets his younger brother something wicked.

Of course, Cain does it on purpose when Abel is annoying him. That’s what siblings do.

Something has been changing between them however, and Cain isn’t quite sure it’s a good thing. It feels- it feels like something bad is coming, like a storm you barely pick up hints of on the wind. And that, more than anything, has Cain exceptionally tense nowadays.

Not that he isn’t tense anyway. It’s an unfortunate aspect of his nature that Cain is near constantly anxious about something or other. His dreams, so vivid and fantastical as a child, darkened as he grew and now as a man they are nightmares. He likes to sleep but the nightmares make him reluctant. Not even his darling wife is enough to keep them at bay. There were nights that Cain remembers waking _screaming _and none of his family could console him. Those were the nights when Abel had to be taken to the other end of the cave because the sight of his own _brother _had Cain clawing at his own skin.

Nowadays, Cain doesn’t wake screaming. He’s learnt to keep the terror firmly behind his teeth to spare his wife and his family. They think he has outgrown them. That he looks haggard and worn because he never seems to stop working on this and that. Cain lets them have their illusions.

It’s for the best.

Unfortunately, although Cain does what he can for his family to protect them from his own nightmares, there are other things Cain cannot protect them from. His cursed nature is one of them.

It starts out as nothing. Just a little thing. As these things always do. Eve mentions that the Lord, their God, requires an offering from them. A sign of respect and honour. Of love. Something of it rubs Cain the wrong way but he doesn’t comment on it. Abel steals the attention anyway. The youngest son of Adam and Eve waxes lyrical about the Lord, about his _perfect _offering for Him. Cain feels the words to be poison to his ears and his heart. Something writhes within him at every loving word from Abel for one who doesn’t seem to really Care about them.

Where has God been when Cain woke screaming at the feel of burning heat and ice cold winds ripping into him? Where has God been when Cain sees the world burnt and hollow and hears the sound of his brother sobbing?

Nowhere.

But it is an obligation to the Lord and to his family that Cain will not shirk. So he tills away at the soil, digs and digs, plants seeds carefully, speaks to them softly at first, then harsher until they sprout and grow at a pace no other will ever match.

Cain may not love their Lord but he will give Him an offering. One that the first son of man will bleed for.

Trowels are sharp and annoying when they unexpectedly break.

The day of the offerings dawns and Cain wastes no time in hauling his offering upon his back and setting off for the top of the mount where they are to give them to the Lord. Abel, Cain knows, will be on his way also. Neither brother sleep as much as they should but at least Cain _tries_ to pretend he does. At the top of the mount, Cain spies his brother standing there, pale and bright and _happy _in the early light of dawn and it steals Cain’s breath away. How his brother looks so _otherworldly_.

And here is Cain, stood in the shadows, feeling like it’s where he belongs no matter how he tries to crawl his way into the light.

The moment passes when the bleating of a goat breaks the silence and Cain blinks. His offerings are decent and good but as Cain slowly approaches, he realises that Abel’s is superior. It cannot help but be.

A beautiful goat stands beside his brother, nibbling away at the sparse grass that peeks up through the stones and pebbles of the mountain. It’s coat is smooth and gleams with the sheen of full health. It looks fat and hale and healthy and it is so much _more _than a few meagre vegetables and fruits that Cain almost wishes to turn on his heel now and flee.

But then Abel turns and sees him and Cain cannot escape.

His brother calls him and then the Lord calls them both and Cain’s offerings are disregarded as he expected for the brilliance of Abel’s. It burns. It _burns_.

His whole being burns and it takes everything in Cain to not scream obscenities at his brother and the Lord. Cain knows his offerings aren’t so great but _really? Really?_

Abel leaves before Cain, happily skipping away, to wait for his brother a little further down the mount. Abel’s offering has been well-received and it boosts his brother in a way that Cain _hates_. He _hates it_. But his brother leaving means there is only Cain atop the mountain facing the Lord who turns to him and seems to See Into Him.

If Cain were not so angry he might be afraid.

YOU ARE DISPLEASED

“I give you my offering, Lord,” Cain says and there’s spite in his voice but that’s all he allows. He will not shout at the Lord. Not here. Not now. He will curse them later. But to challenge the Lord to His face- no. No. “I hope you accept it, meagre as it is.”

TAKE HEED CAIN the Lord says YOU ARE BECOMING BITTER AND IT SPOILS YOUR OFFERINGS AS SURE AS IT DOES YOUR SOUL

Cain bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood and the coppery-tang is _delicious_.

“If you do not wish it Lord I will remove it from your sight.”

NOTHING IS BEYOND MY SIGHT CAIN the Lord says and there might be humour there but it is lost on Cain right now. I SEE ALL NO MATTER HOW FAR FROM ME IT IS. I SEE YOU AND I KNOW YOU MY CHILD

_My child._

_My child._

_My. Child._

“I am the son of Adam and Eve!” Cain spits and he drops his offerings to the Lord on the altar beside the slain goat. Abel had seemed so upset at ending its life but his brother had muttered something about it being _for the greater good_. Cain wants to spit on it all. “I leave you my offerings Lord and will take my leave! I will not sully your sight any longer!”

And then, before the Lord can speak, Cain turns on his heel and storms away. His back is shaking as he feels the burn of the Lord watching him, letting him walk away. If the Lord wished him not to leave, then Cain would not. The Lord is _allowing him to go_.

Somehow that is worse.

Half way down the mountain, Abel meets him with nervous eyes as he seems to recognise the foul mood his brother is in. Unfortunately for Abel, Cain is angry and spiteful and there’s something _twisted _in him that is crying for blood.

Pure blood.

“Come with me to the fields, brother, I wish to speak to you,” Cain says and his voice lacks any anger. It sounds like sweetened honey wine.

It sounds like death.

“Of course brother.”

Abel has not known death the way Cain does. Killing a goat is nothing to what Cain has Seen in his dreams. Even in his waking hours, the spectres of death follow him always.

Now it seems they have claimed him.

Abel does not expect the blade in his side and looks at Cain with such open surprise, it catches Cain’s hatred off-guard. A single spot of honest, open _shock _and the first son of man realises what he’s done.

“No! No!” He clings to his brother even as Abel falls to the ground, gasping his last breath, those eyes of water looking up at Cain with so much confusion and _hurt_. “Abel no! No I didn’t mean it! Please! Azir- _brother_!”

But there is nothing.

Those eyes are empty.

His brother does not stir.

Cain stays there for so long the dawn becomes day and then dusk and night. He stays even as the darkness closes around him. He stays and does not notice the passing of time. Its sands are meaningless to him here.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE CHILD?

The voice of the Lord booms over the fields of Cain and draw him from his empty staring at his brother’s silent face. Cain looks up and sees a light brighter than the sun but colder than the moon above him, bathing the fields in freezing light.

The light of the Lord when He is grieving and angry.

Somewhere deep inside Cain, something curls up and whimpers at the sight of it. The feel. Something that Knows that cold light and fears it and longs for it all at once. The rest of Cain is frozen.

“I chose not to be second,” Cain answers because he _did _chose. Abel has always been better than him, Cain has always known it. His little brother. His other half. The same as him but infinitely _better_. “I am my brother’s keeper no longer.”

YOU NEVER WERE HIS KEEPER CAIN the Lord says YOU WERE HIS BROTHER AND HE LOVED YOU

“And I him!” Cain screams. Pain and regret and self-hatred break his voice and his scream becomes a sob. “_I loved him_.”

THEN WHY DID YOU KILL HIM? the Lord asks him and Cain- Cain cannot- he-

“Because what I love, I destroy,” the first murderer whispers. “It is what I am and I cannot change it. No creature loves me. My wife cares but she loves a worker who provides not what else I am. My brot- Abel- he- he loved me and I’ve- I’ve- I’ve destroyed him.”

YOU DO NOT DESTROY ALL THAT YOU LOVE CAIN the Lord says. YOU COVET TOO MUCH IN THIS LIFETIME THAT WHICH IS FREELY GIVEN YOU

“Then I am a monster!”

YOU ARE EXACTLY AS YOU OUGHT TO BE CAIN, MY CHILD the Lord declares and it is firm and unyielding and Cain cannot argue with it. YOU WILL UNDERSTAND ONE DAY BUT IT WILL BE A LONG TIME FROM NOW

“Wha- what do you mean? I will die for this,” Cain stutters, looking down at Abel and stroking his brother’s face with trembling fingers. He’s so gentle with his brother now and Cain wishes he could have been gentle in life too. “I deserve to die for this.”

YOU WILL END THIS LIFE YES the Lord agrees and Cain looks at the light of the Lord. BUT YOU WILL LIVE MANY MORE LIVES WHERE YOU CAN REPENT

“I- is this a punishment from you, Lord? For what I have done?” Cain asks and he yearns for the Lord to say _yes_. “Am I to wander forever this world trying to repent for this most grievous of sins?”

IF THAT IS HOW YOU WISH TO SEE IT THEN YES the Lord answers. BUT YOU WILL ONLY SUFFER IF YOU WISH TO, I WILL NOT CAUSE YOU MORE PAIN MY CHILD. I WILL NOT BE SO CRUEL

“But I deserve it!” Cain wails.

The cold light of the Lord softens over him, becoming something kinder and gentler. It feels almost like a gentle embrace.

NO CHILD the Lord intones in as soft a voice as the Lord seems able to. YOU DO NOT

And so it was that Cain killed Abel and the Lord gave him a punishment that did not prevent the death of the world’s first murderer. So it was that Cain returned to where he came and so too did Abel.

So it was that the Lord watched and waited for the time when the wrongs done would be righted and all sins forgiven.


	3. Two

** _Hell, Year 25 Anno Mundi (3979 BC):_ **

“You did better than expected traitor,” Beelzebub says when the traitor comes to. They seem to be a little disoriented, looking about hell with wide eyes but the red-hot poker in Beelzebub’s hand is more than enough to get the traitor’s attention. Being skewered in the leg with a burning poker does tend to get one the desired attention. “I expected you to fuck this up too.”

“Wh- I- Beelzebub.” The traitor splutters. “Your Dukeship.”

Beelzebub rolls their eyes. “I don’t want your shitty attempts at flattery traitor,” they snap and the traitor tenses. “Our King wishes to see you, get a report from the traitor’s own mouth before you’re sent back out again.”

If it’s possible, the traitor pales more dramatically than they had when Beelzebub skewered their leg. It makes the Duke of Hell smirk. At least the traitor knows what a Bad Thing it is to be summoned by their King.

_Good_.

The traitor goes off and Beelzebub is left with paperwork that they don’t want to deal with at all but it’s either the paperwork or actually going round and collecting reports _in person_. Beelzebub prefers the paperwork. It’s less irritating. The less interaction Beelzebub has with other beings the better it is for Beelzebub’s existence.

They’re working and have been for hours when the traitor _finally_ returns. They look a little worse for wear—Beelzebub can see tufts of feathers missing from the wings the traitor is hiding in the second plane and it makes a curl of delight slither up Beelzebub’s spine—but they’re still standing and Beelzebub has things to do.

“You have an assignment before you get another little _trip_,” Beelzebub says, pointing at the tar-stained file on their desk. The traitor takes it with trembling hands, the nails on their fingers torn and broken in places that tells Beelzebub all they need to know. “Have fun, traitor. It’s a torture gig.”

The traitor’s hands tremble more at the word _torture_ and Beelzebub relishes the spark of fear it elicits from the traitor. At least the traitor is enjoyable company like this, Beelzebub thinks. Maybe they should suggest to their King to receive reports from the traitor personally more often? It’d be nice for the Duke of Hell to have a taste of the feat the King partakes of.

Especially if just a drop of fear is _this_ _potent_.

Beelzebub considers the possibility as the traitor leaves and paperwork becomes the only thing the Duke of Hell has to work on for the next decade.

* * *

** _Mesopotamia, Earth, year 1656 Anno Mundi (2348 BC)_ ** **:**

Noah stands on his ark and watches the people ignore his words. He had spoken to the Lord Himself and the Lord told the truth of the wickedness of men in these lands. Noah knew of no lands beyond those he has been born to but he also knows that there are more peoples than the ones who will perish in the coming flood.

That does not make the burden easier to bear.

His wife approaches behind him and Noah doesn’t hesitate to turn to her. She is exotic according to the people down below. Unnaturally so. Noah doesn’t much care for what they think of his wife. He loves her and she him. She has bore him children and loves them so fiercely that Noah is certain she will kill to protect them.

“You cannot change their minds,” she tells him and Noah sighs. She is right. She often is. “You cannot make them do what they do not wish to my love.”

Naamah gives him a Look that Noah knows well. Naamah, daughter of Lamech, is a wise person. Wiser than Noah by far.

Though he is wise enough not to tell her too often since she truly takes his praise absolutely _awfully_. He can barely compliment her on her ferocious love of their children before she hisses at him to _stop talking_ and drags him to their bed.

Unsurprisingly, Noah purposefully uses her inability to accept a compliment to rile her up something fierce. She makes the most delightful sounds when annoyed with him.

“I still wish they would see reason,” Noah says to his wife and she leans against him, fingers twining themselves around the bristles of his beard. She quite likes to tug on it to get his attention. It works exceptionally well too. “The rain is already starting and there are _children_ down there.”

“I know, the children do not deserve this,” Naamah says and she sounds so sad that Noah cannot help but pull her closer to him and press a kiss to her head. “They’re innocent. Damn the Lord for punishing them for their parents sins!” She hisses and Noah tenses.

“I’m sorry, my love,” Naamah says after a moment, apologetic. “I- you know how I feel about children being harmed. I am not prone to thinking.”

No. No she isn’t. Noah has witnessed the absolute _mess _his wife has left when protecting a child she saw being struck in the marketplace once. It was partly what drew Noah to her back then. A strong, unyielding woman who refused to back down because men ordered her to. Noah found her wondrous. When her hair flew free of her scarf as she slung a bucket of shit at the man threatening her and the child she sought to protect, Noah was lost.

Noah could see the face of the child she’d protected then amongst the crowd. He would perish in the floods to come.

“Come my love,” Noah says softly, pulling his wife away from the rail of the ark. “I will not have you catch your death of cold out here in the rain.”

“It’s barely even drizzle,” Naamah mumbled against his side but she did not protest as Noah guided them inside to the rest of their family. “I’ve seen worse drizzle in the garden.”

“We don’t have a garden love.” Noah looks down at his wife. “Though I shall make you one when the flood ends.”

“I’d like some yellow flowers,” Naamah says, her free hand reaching up and curling around Noah’s own. “The ones we saw on the mountain that summer, remember?”

Noah smiles. “I remember.”

“Those. A garden full of those.”

“I promise my love, I shall make you a garden so beautiful you may name it the Second Eden,” Noah swears and Naamah sighs against him.

It’s a promise Noah intends to keep.

He simply doesn’t know it will take a rather long time to do so.

* * *

** _Heaven, Year 1698 Anno Mundi (2306 BC):_ **

“Give your report, Principality,” Gabriel orders the moment the angel forms before him. “How fared the life you lived? Did you at least do as you were told?”

The Principality shifts awkwardly before the archangel before his spine straightens. “I- uh- I believe so, yes.”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “You _believe so_?” He mocks. “You were ordered to carry out the creation of the Ark, to be Noah and lead the humans of the region to salvation. Over two thousand humans died, Principality. You _believe _that is what you were told to do?”

“I- no, no, I was ordered to save them, to save their souls,” the Principality says quietly. “I tried.”

“You tried.” Gabriel scoffs. “You saved the family and the animals at least,” he sighs. “Paperwork is in your usual room. Fill it out and report to Michael when it’s complete. You’ll be sent back then.”

He turns to walk out of the room when a little sound from the Principality stops him.

“What?” Gabriel asks impatiently. He has things to be doing.

“Uh- well—I- I was wondering,” the Principality stammers and Gabriel is about to snap at him to _get on with it_ when the angel finally does. “How many more times will I be mortal? You- you know? For my punishment?”

Gabriel tilts his head to the side. The Principality shifts nervously.

“For however long it lasts,” the archangel says eventually and the Principality realises then that it’s not a good idea to question heaven and the punishments it hands out because they nod at Gabriel. “Go.”

The Principality flees from his sight and Gabriel watches him leave. Asking questions. Disobeying. Giving away heavenly items. This Principality is a problem and Gabriel dislikes problems.

Especially ones he can’t kill.

* * *

** _Egypt, Earth, Year 2386 Anno Mundi (1618 BC):_ **

The first plague wasn’t quite so bad, he thinks, just a bit of a bother really. But these others? They’re becoming a problem. A big one. The uppity Israelite is a problem that he wants removed from this world but nothing seems to work. The gods do not smile down upon Ramses in this endeavour. So he’s forced to deal with Moses, the prophet and leader of the slaves, challenging him at every turn. Him. A Pharaoh.

The blood in the water was explained by his priests—a cheap parlour trick good for surprising his foreign guests. The frogs, obviously driven from the Nile with the dye in the water. Lice were- well- they were unfortunately typical of the time of year. Even a Pharaoh was bothered by them every now and again. The flies driven by the humid heat too, as his priests explained, was not unheard of. Just intensely unpleasant.

“I tell you, Ramses, let my people go or these plagues will continue!” Moses had cried at him across the Nile. Ramses had, in a fit of honest exhaustion and frustration, seriously considered it, but the discomfort caused by this uppity little slave had the Pharaoh all the more determined to refuse. “I do not wish this to become worse!”

“Then give up and learn your place!” The Pharaoh had bellowed across the river to Moses who had looked at him with such a sad expression it threw Ramses. He hadn’t known at the time what that look meant but now- now Ramses knows.

The pestilence to the livestock, the boils, even the fire from the sky, were not what that look meant. It was regrettable, the loss of the livestock, the damage done by the sky fire, and the discomfort of the boils, but it was not a reason for sadness. Nor were the locusts or the three days of absolute darkness that blanketed the kingdom.

No.

Moses’ sad expression was for the last plague to befall Egypt by the hand of the Israelite.

Ramses values little above the life of his children. To him, children are quite sacred. He’s even kind enough to not force the Israelite children to work until they are past puberty—his father was not so kind, Ramses recalls. To the Pharaoh of Egypt, harming his child is something unforgivable.

It also destroys him.

“Take your people and go,” he whispers to the man standing behind him. Ramses does not look away from his son, cradled to his chest. “Leave Egypt and do not return. I let them go.”

“I am sorry Ramses,” Moses says and he means it but Ramses does not _care_. “I didn’t want this to happen.”

“I said GO!”

Moses does not linger. Ramses’ anger is fierce when roused and coupled with his grief it will drive the Pharaoh beyond reason. The small reprieve Moses has no will not last and Ramses knows they are both aware.

Moses has caused the death of his child. The God the Israelites love so has killed Ramses’ child.

The Pharaoh of Egypt will not let these _slaves _live for the offence. Not one of them. But for now, he needs to lay his child to rest, give him the proper burial befitting a prince of Egypt. The Israelites can have their little breath of freedom.

Ramses will choke them with it as surely as his son’s own breath was choked out of him by the hand of a foreign God.

The sea has parted before the Israelites and Ramses can see it as he spurs his horse on, the chariot wheels eating up the ground. He stares at the sight with wide, surprised eyes. All the other acts committed by Moses and the Israelites God have paled in comparison to _this_. Ramses knows of no priest who could part the Nile let alone the Red Sea. It is beyond amazing.

But it does not stop Ramses from wanting blood for his loss. His anger, pain, even his fear, demands he act and take from those who have wronged him. Moses has taken from him and Ramses will take from Moses. He will and nothing will stop him.

Not even a God that can part a sea.

“MOSES!”

The prophet of the Israelites turns to see the Pharaoh of Egypt driving his chariot along the bed of the parted sea, his soldiers close behind. Ramses can see the wide-eyed fear and grief in Moses’ face. Ramses sees it and realises he will not have his blood.

The sea has been parted by a God protecting His People. Ramses is not His People so the sea does not part for him.

It crushes him beneath its weight in a moment, thousands of litres of salty water drowning him and Ramses, in his last moments, understands the grief on Moses’ face. Moses knew Ramses would follow. Knew and lamented it for this was bound to happen.

Washing up on the shore of the Red Sea, coughing and spluttering, Ramses blinks at the blue sky above him and questions why he still lives. He was at the bottom of the sea and now he on its shore.

YOU ONLY DID WHAT YOU WERE MADE TO DO RAMSES, PHARAOH OF EGYPT a voice declares within him and all around him. Ramses looks about with wide eyes. YOUR PATH CONTINUES BEYOND THIS POINT. TRAVEL IT CAREFULLY

Ramses’ throat is raw and thick with sea salt. He cannot speak and so he can only flop back on the shore and stare up and up at the sky while the voice recedes. The Israelites are beyond him now. Ramses can do nothing to them.

All he can do is return to what he knows and accept it will never be quite the same.

* * *

** _Hell, Year 2399 Anno Mundi (1605 BC):_ **

The traitor has grown used to the returns to hell, Beelzebub notes. They don’t even look around in surprise or fear anymore. Just with a sad resignation. The Duke of Hell finds it wonderful to witness.

“Not bad, keeping Her favourites enslaved that long with all them plagues happening,” Beelzebub says, giving a smidgen of praise only because it was pretty surprising how long the traitor held out against Her Will. Beelzebub isn’t quite sure _they_ would have held out that long. “I’ll inform Our King while you spend some time in the torture chambers—” the traitor tenses “—you need to pull your weight down there. Make some of the souls into demons worthy of being demons and it’ll be better for you.”

Beelzebub is showing them a kindness and punishing them in one move. The Duke knows the traitor dislikes the chambers, dislikes making demons of human souls, but it’s either make souls or spend time in the pits and then be thrown back to earth even more messed up then the traitor already is. Beelzebub knows what the traitor will do regardless.

The traitor nods and leaves; escorted by two other demons who will watch the traitor’s work and report it to Beelzebub. The Duke knows the traitor will do perfect with the torture no matter how much they hate it. The fear of the pits will ensure that.

That their King will be pleased to sense the loathing it will surely evoke in the traitor is just a coincidence for Beelzebub delivering the latest expense reports. Completely coincidental.


	4. Three

** _Macedonia, Earth, Year 3660 Anno Mundi (344 BC):_ **

Alexander hurries through the gardens of his father’s palace, searching for his quarry. Hephaestion has been avoiding him and the boy is tired of it. If his friend won’t talk to him willingly, then Alexander will simply have to _make him talk to him_. Of course, Alexander isn’t quite sure _how _to do that when he _does _find Hephaestion, but he’ll deal with that when he has to. Now is a time for searching.

Hephaestion has been closer to Alexander than any of their other age-mates, no matter who they are, and Alexander considers the boy to be his twin, his other half. Together when they train they are better than the other pairs. Their training master says it is because they are like the _Hìeròs Lókhos_—the Sacred Band of Thebes. Fierce warriors who fought in pairs and did not yield no matter what. It doesn’t matter who they face, neither boy yields when the other is still standing. And if one falls? They fall together or not at all.

Alexander hopes, when they are men and soldiers, that they will ride together and win many battles as he’s been told. His father, Philip, says that the Greeks must come together and unite against the Persians again. Like the Greeks of old, he says, but Alexander doubts the other polis are interested in dealing with the Persian threat. Not when Macedonia is in the way of any attempt at conquest of the Greek nations.

Hephaestion is certain that the Persians will attack sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time, the boy told him, just like all things are. There had been a sadness about his friend when the son of Amyntor had said that and no matter what Alexander tried, the other boy would not confess it. So Alexander has had to resort to sneaking about searching for his friend.

Maybe Hephaestion doesn’t want to talk about the wisdom he has, Alexander can respect that, but he doesn’t like his friend not talking to him about things. It makes Alexander feel a little hollow inside, like an empty amphora that has been drained of wine before it should have been. So Alexander searches for his friend in the one place Hephaestion has always retreated to—the gardens.

Of course he finds him there, crunched up in a ball, against the thick trunk of the tree overhanging one of the ponds. Alexander does his best to not make a sound as he approaches, sandals as quiet on the fine stone path as they can possibly be, but still Hephaestion hears him.

His friend has the hearing of a predator, Alexander thinks, as he sits down beside Hephaestion who stares into the pond like it can tell the boy everything. Maybe it can. Alexander isn’t quite aware enough of the powers of the gods as he probably ought to be, what with his being a prince and all. But still, that’s not important.

Hephaestion is.

“Are you going to stay out here all day?”

Hephaestion turns his head, his gaze breaking away from the water to fix on Alexander. The dark-haired boy just looks at him, doesn’t answer aloud and Alexander sighs. “Really? You’re not going to talk to me now?”

“Will you listen?” Hephaestion asks and Alexander nods. “I keep dreaming of us when we’re older,” the dark-haired boy says and Alexander’s eyebrows raise. He opens his mouth to say something before remembering, _he is to listen_. “We ride horses in a forest I don’t recognise, it feels so much warmer than it should, stranger too. We are surrounded by Greeks and not all of them are Macedonians. It’s strange, but I feel like- like- like I’m seeing something I’m not there to really see.”

Hephaestion ducks his head down.

Alexander reaches for his friend and hugs him. Hephaestion leans into him, seeking the comfort.

“I- I think I am a spirit then, watching you,” Hephaestion whispers. “I’m beside you but you don’t see me, you seem sad, like you’re mourning something. I think it’s me,” the dark-haired boy admits and Alexander feels hot tears on his arm. They’re matched by Alexander’s own rolling down his face. “I don’t want you to mourn me.”

“Then I won’t,” Alexander promises, he pulls back from Hephaestion and the boy looks at him, eyes wet and shining. “I won’t mourn you because I won’t let you _die_.”

“You can’t defy the fates, Alexander,” Hephaestion says. “No matter how much you want to.”

Alexander’s face hardens, for all that he’s a boy of twelve, he looks more like a man of thirty facing down an enemy he won’t yield to. “I can and I _will_.”

Hephaestion stares at him. Alexander doesn’t look away from him. The dark-haired boy slowly smiles. “I believe you,” he says and Alexander’s heart pounds a little at the smile and the faith of his friend. “I believe in you.”

“Good,” Alexander says. “Because I wouldn’t be able to do anything if you didn’t.”

* * *

** _Still in Macedonia, Earth, Year 3368 Anno Mundi (336 BC):_ **

“I’m sorry, Alexander.” Hephaestion stands behind his friend, his other half, his brother in battle, and _aches_ for him. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t kill my father, Hephaestion,” Alexander says, not turning to look at him. The words are soft and calm and Hephaestion cringes at them. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I failed to protect him as a subject of the King of Macedonia,” Hephaestion says, stepping forward and gingerly placing a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. Beneath his fingers, Alexander is trembling with anger and pain. “But I am sorry for your loss and that I cannot ease the pain you feel.”

“You can ease it.” Alexander turns suddenly. He looks at Hephaestion with wide eyes and a desperate expression on his face. “You can help ease my pain.”

“Anything, Alexander, anything for you,” Hephaestion says, moving his hand to the juncture of Alexander’s neck and shoulder, feeling the new King of Macedon’s pulse pounding beneath his fingers. “You know I will do anything for you.”

“I know,” Alexander murmurs, stepping close and Hephaestion doesn’t move away. A hand reaches up and traces his face, fingers trembling when they reach his lips. “Make me forget this for a little while, please.”

Hephaestion closes the distance, arms wrapping around Alexander and drawing the golden-haired man to him. He presses his lips to Alexander’s, feeling them yield to him as the new King surrenders himself. Hephaestion doesn’t question the burning joy he feels at the surrender of Alexander to him, instead moving them back toward the bed in Alexander’s rooms, toppling them down upon it. The night air is warm on his back as Hephaestion leans over Alexander, still kissing him even as the dark-haired man’s hands move to cloth and ties, deftly relieving his King of his clothes.

The kiss is broken only when Alexander’s head turns away and he lets out a choked sound at the first touch of his length by Hephaestion. There are tear-tracks down Alexander’s face and Hephaestion gently kisses them away. They have nothing to smooth the journey so Hephaestion licks his hand and hopes it is enough as he curls his hand around Alexander’s length.

Alexander lets out a soft sound at the touch that turns to a quiet moan when Hephaestion draws his hand up along his length in a steady rhythm he knows Alexander likes. A hand claws at Hephaestion’s back, nails digging into his skin and leaving pin-pricks of pain that have Hephaestion shivering. He does so love it when Alexander claws and bites, but now is not about Hephaestion. It’s about Alexander.

“I love you, Alexander,” Hephaestion whispers, stroking back golden-curls from Alexander’s face. “You are my other half and I cannot imagine a life without you in it,” he continues. “I cannot imagine not being with you, beside you, protecting you from all that I possibly can. You are all that matters to me, Alexander, and I long to spare you the grief of loss.” Hephaestion ducks down and kisses the sobbing man beneath him.

Alexander clings to him fiercely, body shaking. Hephaestion’s hand on his length continues to stroke him, steadily speeding up as the dark-haired man deepens their kiss, tongues pressing against each other, teeth nipping at lips and tears staining both their faces.

Alexander spends himself near silently and Hephaestion swallows the softest of sounds from the new King with all the dedication of one who loves ardently and without regret. It’s all Hephaestion can give him and Hephaestion gives it without hesitation.

He will never regret loving Alexander, even if it leads to his death.

* * *

** _Ecbatana, Earth, Year 3380 Anno Mundi (324 BC):_ **

“No! No! Hephaestion please don’t!” Alexander begs, but it’s no use. Hephaestion is- he’s- “please! Don’t do this to me you demon! Don’t!”

He’s dead.

Hephaestion is dead and Alexander wishes he were dead also. Instead he is forced to live on without his other half and there is nothing Alexander can do about it. The gods have chosen to be cruel to him, taking Hephaestion from him like this. The King of the Macedonian empire, ruler of all of Greece and Persia. What does that matter when the one he is whole with is gone?

He is a ruler of a kingdom of ash, dust and bone. He had love and he has lost it for power. What has he done? _What has he done?_

There is nothing left for Alexander any longer now. Nothing. Except war. Conquest.

Without Hephaestion by his side, it is all dark and empty, but it is all he has known for ten years now. Let Alexander fall in battle, he will not give up now. Not when Hephaestion fought so hard to live. Alexander cannot insult him by giving up now.

But before he goes to fight and fall, first Alexander has somewhere to go.

Hephaestion deserves to be called a hero. Divine. And Alexander will _make it happen_.

* * *

** _Babylon, Earth, still Year 3380 Anno Mundi (324 BC):_ **

He did what he set out to do. Alexander knows he can rest now. There is nothing more he need do. He can rest. Hephaestion awaits him in Elysium. Alexander can rest. He can… rest…


	5. Four

** _Nowhere and everywhere all at once, Year 4000 Anno Mundi (4 BC):_ **

THE TIME APPROACHES

THINGS WILL CHANGE SOON

IT IS ONLY A MATTER OF TIME


	6. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there's sex and angst involved.

** _Golgotha, Earth, Year 4035 Anno Mundi (31 AD):_ **

Jesus Christ is a strange man to know, Mary decides, not long after meeting him. He shows kindness to those who don’t deserve it, those who society says are unworthy of it, and he doesn’t cast unfavourable looks upon anyone. Well, except those are unfavourable first.

Judas is strange also, but not quite the same. He seems torn between loving Jesus and wanting to hate him but not being quite able to do so. Mary watches him with her sharp eyes, hair well-hidden by her scarf lest it be revealed who she is. Jesus finds her hair wonderful but it can be a bother at times for the woman when it draws such attention.

Red hair is rather rare in the region unless one is a roman. Mary is not a roman.

So she is doubly interesting to look upon.

Jesus shows her favour unlike the others who follow him and Mary knows this irritates Judas. She does not quite know why it does, only that the man resents how much Jesus values her words, no matter how wise they may be. It does mean Mary avoids the apostle but sometimes, sometimes, she finds she cannot. Like now.

Judas surprises her by catching her about the arms and pinning her to the wall of the alcove she hid in. She lets out a quiet sound of surprise but doesn’t scream. Even as she is wary of him, Mary knows that she trusts Judas. Which is ironic considering the things she hears when she looks at him too long.

“You should not follow me, Mary,” the man says and his voice is gravel and his eyes are intense. Mary does not look away from them. “It is not safe.”

“No where is safe with the romans about,” Mary replies and both of them are aware that it’s true, but not for everyone. Mary gets by with her hair and her softer features. Judas because he knows some romans.

Mary knows he knows them because she’s just overheard him talking with them.

“Jesus asked after you,” Mary says and the apostle recoils, lets her go and steps back like she’s struck him. Maybe she has.

“Jesus knows where I have been,” Judas says and there’s an expression of deep shame on his face. Shame Mary recognises because she wore it on her own many times before Jesus showed her kindness and forgiveness. “Just as you do.”

“You don’t need to do it Judas,” the woman says softly. “You can still change it.”

Judas shakes his head. “No. This is what must be done. I know that. Jesus does not hate me for it.”

“He wouldn’t,” Mary sighs, touching the apostle’s arm gingerly lest he bolt. Fortunately he does not and Mary rubs his arm gently. “Why would he when you hate yourself more than he ever could?”

Judas looks up at her.

“Yes, I know what it is to hate yourself, Judas, you know that,” she says and the apostle grimaces at the reminder. He had been rather rude to her back then, but he had learnt. As had she. “If it is something he knows and he does not stop you, then it must be God’s Will. I hope you can forgive yourself, Judas.”

“I won’t. I _can’t_,” he whispers and Mary’s eyes burn a little with tears. Her wariness of Judas has its answer now. She has always been aware of those who have had to do cruel things to survive and she does not begrudge them the acts unless they enjoy them. Judas looks as though he’d rather plunge a dagger through his heart right now instead of what he’s going to do.

“Then _I_ forgive you,” Mary whispers back and she gives Judas a gentle kiss on his forehead that has the apostle bowing his head and sobbing quietly. “I forgive you _for_ you.”

Even after the revelation of what Judas has done, after she witnesses her beloved crucified like a criminal, Mary does not rescind her forgiveness. It is on her order that the apostles cut Judas down from the tree and lay him to rest. _It is what Jesus would have done, _she tells them, _so it is what we must do_.

Wherever Judas’ soul is, Mary hopes it knows peace. She doubts her own will when she meets her end.

* * *

** _Somewhere between Heaven and Hell, Year 4245 Anno Mundi (210 BC):_ **

“We’re getting closer to the end times,” Gabriel says, looking at his demonic counterpart. “You had any thoughts about who’s gonna deal with the package up on earth?”

Beelzebub swirls their glass of burning essence—pulled from the soul of a human that didn’t make it in the chambers—and thinks about the question.

“He’s decided who it’s gonna be,” the answer eventually. “Not my first choice but there’s still worst demons in hell than him.”

“Who? The Devil has to trust them a lot to give them the honour of dealing with the anti-Christ.” Gabriel is curious. The Duke of Hell is uncomfortable with that curiosity but doesn’t show it. That would be weakness.

“The traitor,” Beelzebub answers. “I know, strange, but you don’t question Satan if you want to keep your skin.”

Gabriel frowns. “You have any idea why him?”

Beelzebub shrugs. “Best I can guess, it might be because the traitor has blended in with the humans. Demonic essence is hard to hide the longer you walk in mortal form and he’s the only one who’s managed it this long. All the others show their aspects too soon to be any real good for long term missions.”

Gabriel hums. “We don’t quite have that problem,” he says, “more most don’t like being on earth and having to blend in with them. The lot of them are just messy and dull.”

“To you,” Beelzebub says and Gabriel shrugs. “They’re more fun for us but still suspicious of our lot. Traitor’s the only one who hasn’t been killed for being himself, just died a couple times from wars and lookin’ too pretty to resist apparently. What about yours?”

“Oh, soldier, diplomat, servant, you know, the usual,” Gabriel says, waving a hand. “He’s died in battle loads of times. Seems to be good for cannon fodder. Not much else in my opinion. But he’d be decent enough as a liaison with your guy.”

Beelzebub looks at Gabriel.

Gabriel looks at Beelzebub.

“I’ll take it to Him,” the Duke says and Gabriel nods.

“I’ll discuss it with the other archangels then,” Gabriel says and they both stand at the same time. “Till next time, demon spawn.”

“Next time, angel scum.”

* * *

** _Rome, Earth, Year 4345 Anno Mundi (310 AD):_ **

“Constantine is going to declare Christianity the religion of the empire soon enough,” Aurelianus says to the group of patricians he’s sat with. They all nod solemnly. Most of them are lax enough with their beliefs that they will sign up to the new faith so long as it continues to benefit them to do so. Aurelianus wants to be annoyed at that, but annoyance won’t convince them anymore than preaching piety when surrounded by piles of gold. “It has spread well enough among the lower classes. The sooner it becomes official, the sooner we can unite everyone under the same banner against our enemies.”

“And if your enemies have the same banner as you?” A stranger asks and Aurelianus turns in his seat to look at them. He immediately registers that they are not native to Rome simply by the outfit they have on. They look more like they’ve travelled to the centre of the western world. Perhaps they are a merchant of some sort? “If they have it to, are they still your enemies? Will you lay down your arms and give them a great big hug?”

One of the patricians with Aurelianus snorts into his cup. Aurelianus shoots them a glares that is ignored by everyone, including the stranger.

“Who may you be stranger?” Aurelianus asks and his voice is sharp and biting and his manners are far less than he would like them to be but really, interrupting in a private discussion. Height of bad manners really. “I am Aurelianus.”

“Camulorix.”

Aurelianus was right, a traveller to the city.

“That is Brittonic, yes?” He asks politely, curious because he hasn’t met many Gauls himself and those of the isles beyond Gaul are rarer still. He’s seen a couple of the Germanics at the arenas but not a Briton. Though Aurelianus hasn’t exactly had the chance to _ask_.

Camulorix nods. “I’m a Celt, yes, was it obvious?” The man lifts his arms, showing off his outfit and his tall, slender form at the same moment. Aurelianus finds the sight _most _appealing. “Did my hair give it away?”

“There are fire-haired people in Rome, you are not an exception for that,” Aurelianus remarks to Camulorix who flashes him a sharp grin. It has Aurelianus’ heart beating a little faster.

The roman patrician finds the sight of the ‘savage’ Briton to be most appealing. Not only do they seem sharp of mind but they also sound educated. Perhaps they have had tutors? A Brittonic prince perhaps? Aurelianus makes a note to ask the Briton when Camulorix makes a move as though to leave.

Aurelianus panics and, as he tends to do, acts without thinking. He’s up, out of his seat and following the Briton before he’s even realised. The Briton, for the most part, seems to take it in stride, a roman nobleman following after him a bit like a lovesick puppy. “The wine here is not quite as good as somewhere else I know that serves a fine variety.”

Camulorix looks at the roman with a raised eyebrow. His eyes are golden and bright and Aurelianus is lost in them for a moment. Mesmerising. “Does this ‘somewhere else’ have good company?”

Aurelianus blushes a little but nods. “I’d like to think so,” he answers quietly and the Briton smirks at him.

“Then lead the way, Patrician.”

Aurelianus is never so thankful that he lives near enough to this little drinking place than he is right now. With his money and family he could live somewhere far, far grander, but the patrician is pleased enough with the modest six rooms and dozen servants in his employ. He’s given freedom to many over the years but for the sake of his position, has to always take on new ones every four or five years. He doesn’t begrudge it, he’s a far better master than some he knows.

A servant greets him at the door and Aurelianus sends them off for food and some of the best wine he stocks here—honeyed and sweet, it goes down like a dream and you don’t notice you’re too deep in your cups until you’ve passed out for fourteen hours straight. Wonderful. Camulorix looks after the servant with a frown and Aurelianus wonders if the Briton dislikes Rome for its slavery.

It’s not really slavery. Not compared to _some places_ but it’s still not always nice to see. Especially with some of the rumours abound about the way the serving classes are treated.

“They’re not slaves,” Aurelianus says. “I own them yes, but I don’t harm them, and I give them their freedom as soon as I can without it raising eyebrows. Too much attention on me will hinder my efforts in the long-run, so I have to keep up appearances.”

Camulorix looks at him. “I don’t care if you have slaves, Patrician,” the Briton says in a tone that very much _does _care. “I’ve seen many in this city use theirs more like whores than workers, do you do the same?”

Aurelianus splutters indignantly at the blunt question, face burning with anger. “How dare you! No!” He exclaims, poking Camulorix in the chest with a gold-ringed finger. The Briton doesn’t even glance down at the offending digit pressing into his chest. “I would never! The girl you saw just now, Cerviana, she’s lovely and I took her from a ‘friend’ in a game of dice after he made remarks about ‘testing her out’ after he bought her from a heinous slaver! I do what I can to rescue them Briton! Not make their lives worse!”

Aurelianus breaths heavily, panting as he continues to stare at the Briton who stares back.

“Good.”

Aurelianus blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” Camulorix says, lowering his voice and stepping forward into the patrician’s personal space. “_Good_.”

“Oh, oh well,” Aurelianus stumbles over his words, a little lost for them, and the Briton smirks wider.

“I’d rather you only fuck _me _like a whore, Patrician,” the Briton intones, leaning down to lick at Aurelianus’ ear and thank the gods Aurelianus read this situation right because he was absolutely done for. Absolutely. “I want to feel it for _days_.”

Aurelianus grips the Briton’s forearms, dragging him closer and spinning them round until the slender Briton is pressed against the cool stone of the patrician’s home. “I will make you feel it for _weeks_,” he promises and Camulorix shivers against him. There’s a pressing strain against his hip that Aurelianus matches beneath his toga.

“_Yes_.” The Briton’s voice is a hiss and the patrician snags his lip in his teeth and bites down. Camulorix bucks against him, rubbing their lengths together. “_Yes_!”

The servant approaches out of the corner of Aurelianus’ eye, stops, takes in the scene they’ve walked into and then promptly turns back around the way they came. Aurelianus makes a mental note to give the girl an extra coin or two in her wage—which she shouldn’t receive as a servant but what others don’t know about, Aurelianus can’t be judged for. The patrician focuses on the Briton writhing against him, hands wandering as surely as Aurelianus’ own and decides that those lips are very, very kissable if their appearance is anything to go by.

A hand worms its way between the folds of his toga and Aurelianus cries into the kiss when that hand curls around his length and tugs. He grips tightly at the Briton’s shoulders, breaking off the kiss as long strokes draw moans from his lips. The Briton mouths at his neck and jaw.

“Yes, _yes_,” Camulorix hisses, twisting his wrist and making Aurelianus mewl at the delightful sensation. “You’re large, Patrician.”

“Even if I—wasn’t, Briton,” Aurelianus pants, looking up at the smirking Briton, “I’d still make you feel—every bit of it inside you.”

“Promises, Patrician, promises.”

Aurelianus bites at Camulorix’s jaw suddenly, making the Briton jerk and uses the distraction to pull away from him. Camulorix stares at him with golden eyes glowing like sun discs and Aurelianus moves back towards the archway to the rest of his home. He crooks a finger at the Briton who pushes off the wall and follows.

“I deliver on my promises, Camulorix,” Aurelianus says the moment the Briton is through the archway. He doesn’t hesitate to push them toward the blankets and pillows lain out on the floor rather wonderfully. It’s a soft landing for the Briton who allows himself to topple over at such a light shove. Aurelianus follows after him, kneeling above Camulorix and trapping his legs beneath the patrician. “Especially when I’m extremely motivated.”

“Nice to know, Patrician,” Camulorix drawls, hands on Aurelianus’ thighs, pushing up the fabric of his toga and to the side, gaining access to his length quick enough that the patrician is at a disadvantage with the Briton’s clothes. “You will be a delight to have, I’m sure.”

“Oh no,” Aurelianus pants, worming a hand into the Briton’s pants and proudly curling it around the Briton’s length. “I’ll be having _you_.”

“Mmmm ngk!” The Briton’s head drops back at Aurelianus’ skilled working of his length, until he seems to remember he has Aurelianus’ own length in his hand and returns the favour. It has the patrician shivering and moaning in pleasure, rutting forward in little rocking motions, even as he diligently undoes the Briton’s trousers and frees his length.

“Behind you, Briton, there is a bottle of golden liquid,” Aurelianus pants, eyes fluttering at the delightful friction on his length.

“I know—I know what olive oil—what it looks like Patrician!” Camulorix manages to get out, a hand reaching above him, head craning back to see, and Aurelianus dips down to run his tongue along the whole expanse of the Briton’s exposed neck. “Oh fuck!”

“Soon,” Aurelianus promises, nosing at the skin beneath the Briton’s pierced ear. He notices a ring in the ear and on instinct, closes his mouth around is and _sucks_.

“Fuck- fuck! Yes!”

Camulorix’s hips rock up and his length presses against Aurelianus’ arse so wonderfully the patrician grinds down on it, drawing a hissed whine from the Briton. The bottle of olive oil is all but thrown at Aurelianus and the patrician doesn’t wait any longer. He releases the Briton’s earlobe with a smirk, catching the Briton’s eye as he begins to slide down his body and positions himself between Camulorix’s legs, spreading them with his knees.

The trousers the Briton wears are easy to remove, as is the tunic which Camulorix pulls over his head after loosening the threads at the neck. Then Aurelianus is met with a wondrous sight of a naked Briton with markings of Celtic art and battle scars that he longs to run his tongue over and _bite_. Instead, the patrician settles for hungrily cataloguing the whole lot as he removes the cork from the olive oil bottle.

“I feel underdressed,” Camulorix remarks and Aurelianus smiles at him.

“Not at all, I’ll join you shortly,” the patrician promises, pouring olive oil over his hands and rubbing it in until his fingers are nice and slippery. “First though, I’d like to have my length inside you.”

A finger caresses the point where he will breach the Briton and Camulorix shivers at the contact. Aurelianus watches closely when the Briton gives him a wordless, heated nod, and the patrician slowly pushes a finger inside. The heat feels sublime and Aurelianus lets out a sound that is swallowed by the moan from Camulorix. The Briton’s eyes are shut, head thrown back, and Aurelianus sees that he’s clutching at the blanket beneath him with a tight grip. The patrician wonders if it’s pain causing the tight grip until the Briton rocks his hips slightly, grinding down against Aurelianus’ finger and rutting up in the moment.

No, not pain then. _Pleasure_.

The patrician gives the Briton a few moments to grow used to his finger inside him, pushing it in slightly before drawing it out, until it’s easier and Aurelianus feels the Briton is ready for another finger. The second finger goes in as easily as the first and the Briton’s body clamps down around them both making Aurelianus hiss out a breath as his length throbs. Splitting his fingers and spreading them makes Camulorix whine loudly, chest arching up as his back bows, body trembling and Aurelianus quickly adds a third finger, spreading them all and making the Briton tremble _more_.

“P-patrician!” The Briton sounds like he’s broken somewhere and Aurelianus realises it’s with desire. The Briton’s entire being is coming undone with need and Aurelianus is unable to resist the allure of it. “Now Patrician!”

“Yes, yes,” Aurelianus breathes, pulling his fingers out and sliding them over his length, olive oil spreading over it and making it silky smooth to the touch. It will slide in easily now, the patrician knows, and so he doesn’t hesitate to press in close and line his length up with the Briton’s breach. “Now, yes.”

He slides in with more ease than he expected and Aurelianus only breathes out when he’s fully sheathed inside the Briton who moans at the feel. The patrician gives Camulorix a moment to adjust but that’s apparently not what the Briton wants because he bucks his hips and Aurelianus’ hips jerk at the motion. Both of them moan in unison.

Aurelianus’ head drops down to rest on one of Camulorix’s knees as he tries to breath properly. He cannot lose his control if he is to do what the Briton wants of him. If he is to fuck the Briton like a _whore _then Aurelianus will do so.

And that means with force and depth.

“I will fuck you now, Briton,” the patrician tells the Briton who snorts out a faint laugh at how formal he sounds. “I will not stop until I have spent inside you, no matter how much you beg for me to.”

“Again, patrician,” Camulorix says, “promises.”

Aurelianus straightens up. “Yes,” he agrees, pressing in as close to the Briton as he can, “promises indeed.”

A single, long, stroke has the smirk on the Briton’s face falling away, replaced instead with a look of wonderment and pure pleasure that Aurelianus wants to never stop seeing. He slides in again, long and deep, out and in again, again and again, and the Briton’s face is ecstasy and the sounds he make are godlike. Aurelianus craves it so much he doesn’t slow his pace, increasing instead, until he’s pounding into the Briton with force enough to break him and still Camulorix takes it.

Takes every bit of it and begs for more.

Aurelianus takes the Briton’s length in his hand and messy jerks at it, making the Briton thrash and shake. It takes less time than the patrician expects for the Briton to stiffen, body clamping around his length before he spends himself all over Aurelianus’ hand and his own stomach. The Briton is pliant, weak-limbed and spent but still Aurelianus doesn’t stop rolling his hips and burying his length inside over and over. The Briton makes a sound, weak and somewhat pitiful, but doesn’t fight the patrician.

“I told you—I wouldn’t—stop,” Aurelianus pants and Camulorix nods, eyes closed, mouth open as his body moves with every thrust of Aurelianus’ length inside him. “Until I—spend—inside you.”

“Yes,” the Briton breathes, the agreement near lost in the breathy sounds from him and Aurelianus leans down, seals his lips over the Briton’s and ruts into him, the angle changed and deeper. He can feel the Briton trembling beneath him.

It finally crashes over and Aurelianus spends inside the Briton with such ferocity the patrician grips hard enough to bruise Camulorix’s pale flesh. The patrician shivers and his hips jerk through the aftershocks, still sheathed within the Briton until eventually he can stand no more and has to pull out.

Aurelianus rolls down onto his side and pants heavily, staring at the ceiling of the room. Camulorix beside him remains lax and weak-limbed, his breathing starting to settle. The patrician feels his mind starting to wander, heady in that place of bliss after euphoria, and is startled out of it when the Briton sits up and begins pulling on his clothes.

“W- Camulorix?” Aurelianus looks at the Briton who pauses long enough from doing up his tunic to spare him a glance.

“Was nice, Patrician, but I have things to be doing,” Camulorix says, standing and the seed from Aurelianus mustn’t bother the Briton because he pulls on his trousers without bothering to wipe. “Be seeing you around.”

Aurelianus isn’t even able to get a word out before the Briton is out of the room and gone from his sight and his home. The patrician feels oddly bereft with Camulorix’s leaving.

“But,” the patrician whispers, “you didn’t even get to taste the wine.”

Aurelianus finds out, a week later, that the Briton was hired to sleep with him on the orders of a political rival who takes great pleasure in dragging his name through the mud. The look Camulorix gives him across the Forum is one that Aurelianus finds more painful than any insult to his person. It’s the look of one who was just doing their job; _no hard feelings _it says.

Unfortunately, all Aurelianus has are hard feelings. Enough to drive him from Rome and off to Greece where he can hide away from the shame of being taken in by a pretty face and sharp mind with no heart.

* * *

** _Heaven, Year 4381 Anno Mundi (346AD):_ **

“I don’t want to go back.”

Gabriel turns and looks at the Principality standing in the room. This is the first time in quite a while that he’s seen some sort of fire in those eyes. It looks like a bit of sad, pathetic fire, but it’s fire nonetheless.

“What you want doesn’t matter,” Gabriel says and the Principality seems to dim before him. Maybe he was fading away? Being put into mortal form without access to the host must be draining him. Maybe it would eventually kill him?

Which… wasn’t allowed. Damn.

“But you did good work these past few corporations,” the archangel continues and the angel looks at him wary. “You can have a rest. Paperwork and you can wander the third garden, nowhere else.”

“Thank you,” the Principality whispers and Gabriel doesn’t care to ask why his single bit of kindness is so appreciated. He doesn’t care to know.

“Just don’t mess up the paperwork or I’ll make sure you go back a soldier for the Ottomans,” the archangel threatens.

It doesn’t matter that the Ottomans aren’t exactly scheduled yet, Gabriel will make it work if he has to.

Michael will be annoyed with him for putting the breaks on the Principality’s punishment but it’s only a slight reprieve. They can’t have him fading away when it’s been Forbidden. Gabriel will _not _take the blame if that happens thanks. So either Michael is going to have to take it or they’re going to have to cut the Principality a little slack and give him a breather.

At least, until the point of no return arrives. Then he’ll be useful.

Beelzebub sent him the paperwork just last week.

The archangel can’t _wait_.


	7. Six

** _Wessex, Earth, Year 4569 Anno Mundi (537 AD):_ **

He approaches the castle carefully, blade drawn, cloak thrown back so he can move with ease. It would have been wiser to leave it on the horse but, well, it’s _cold_. Aeneas regrets volunteering for this, frankly, _suicidal _mission but he felt compelled to do so the moment Arthur read out the words _black knight_.

There is a bit of magic in his family lines so the knight hadn’t questioned why he was so drawn to the mission but he’s questioning it now. All he has is his horse and the guide who he knows has already fled from the area. He is alone.

Well—_mostly_ alone.

The sound of footsteps approaching from directly in front of him have Aeneas bringing his blade up and settling into a battle-ready stance. He’s expecting the sight that greets him, appearing through the mist like a demonic apparition that makes Aeneas’ heart pound in fear and anticipation.

He is not expecting the sigh from the demon.

“If I had known they’d send a looker like you, I’d have declined the challenge issued by the King.”

Aeneas doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

The demonic apparition lifts the plate of its helmet, revealing a pair of strangely coloured eyes that pin the knight to the spot. They’re entirely mesmerising to him. They are also clearly evil.

“I volunteered, demon,” Aeneas spites out, drawing his wits back about himself at the reminder that he faces no ordinary being.

Fortunately, Aeneas is no ordinary being either.

“That’s nice of you, but I’m still going to have to kill you, ser knight,” the demonic apparition says calmly and Aeneas feels like this is all wrong. It’s not quite right. There’s something- something is-

“Killing you will deprive me of your looks, but it will send a message to Arthur that this little part of the isle is mine and mine alone.”

Aeneas’ eyes narrow. He hefts his sword higher and gives the demon a cold, burning look. “I will not be the one to die,” he declares and in a move almost too fast to track, lunges at the black knight.

Few would be able to dodge such an attack at such a speed, but the black knight does and returns with his own slash that Aeneas parries with ease. They trade blows, blades clashing with an almighty ringing of steel upon steel. The mist begins to clear the longer they battle, the only one way to tell the passage of time as they lose themselves to the battle.

Aeneas has never fought a foe who could last as long as he in battle, too easily tired by their blade and armour. But the black knight does not tire like mortal men. It proves its demonic nature by meeting every strike of the knight and returning them with blows of its own.

Soon it is Aeneas who is starting to tire.

The moment when it comes is clearly telegraphed to the knight and still he can’t prevent it from happening. One moment, Aeneas’ blade is swiping through the air, cutting a clear arc that can cleave a man’s helmet in two, bringing it down just above the hilt of the demon’s blade, and the next the demon’s blade has flashed out from where it ought to be beneath Aeneas’ blade and is coming straight for his mid-section. He can’t prevent and even attempting to abort his own strike isn’t enough.

The blow, when it comes, is so powerful that Aeneas is sent tumbling to the ground in a clashing mess of noise, metal, and flesh. He lies on the ground, panting and pressed against the cool, dew-damp grass that pokes through the grating of his helmet, and waits for the killing blow.

When it comes, there’s a moment where Aeneas feels like it _shouldn’t _and like every part of him is crying out that it’s _wrong, wrong, wrong_. But of course it’s wrong, he’s about to die from the blade of a knight that is a demon and Aeneas can do _nothing to prevent it_.

It’s more than that however. He knows that. It’s more. So, so much more.

The stinging pain of a blade slicing through his side, breaking bone and splitting flesh is too much and yet, not that much at the same time. As though Aeneas is made to sustain far more pain than what a blade can provide. But Aeneas is mortal, no matter how strong or fierce a fighter he is.

And mortals die.

* * *

** _London, Earth, Year 5641 Anno Mundi (1609 AD):_ **

Shakespeare is a bore, Raphael thinks as he crosses the pit where the crowd usually stands to watch the bard’s amazing plays. The writer is annoying, loves to go on about his skill with words and how he’s skilled at _other _things too. At first Raphael had found the man rather compelling to listen to. A fascination. Rare and exceptional compared to all other writer’s of the time. But, like all things that Raphael develops an interest in, what was once fascinating becomes boring, what was once exceptional becomes expected, once rare now common.

It’s not surprising, not really. Raphael has always been easily distracted by things. He needs constant stimulation and there is far less available to stimulate him in London the longer he lives. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be surprised every now and again.

_Hamlet_ is certainly a surprise.

“Not exactly his best, is it?” Raphael asks and though the question is rhetorical—clearly so in fact—he still gets a round of mumbled agreements from the table of actors in the pub they’ve decided is their ‘local’. “Kind of expected, I don’t know, more puns about sex than—well—whatever this is really.”

“A tragedy.” One of his fellow actors is so far into his cups that it sounds more like he said ‘a smadgey’ but Raphael is adept at understanding what others are saying with garbled voices. He has to be. He tends to garble his words a lot unless he’s on the stage himself.

“I _know_ it’s a tragedy, but still, not quite what I expected from him is all.” Raphael isn’t sure what it is about the play that bothers him, but he does know that he doesn’t _like it at all_. Which makes his agreement to star in the damned thing an absolute _mystery_.

“The bard’s mate seems to like it,” the actor nearest to Raphael—called Wilhelm, unlucky bastard, and Raphael doesn’t quite know _why_ he’s unlucky but something about the name seems unlucky to him—comments and Raphael looks at where Wilhelm nods his head toward.

There, at the bar of the pub is a man dressed in finer clothes than most bother with when visiting this particular pub, not even Raphael who is well-to-do as it is, and it makes him stand out more than his shockingly pale, almost white, blonde hair does. Of course, it’s when he turns and looks in the direction of the table of actors that Raphael is completely distracted by _those eyes_.

There’s something so very familiar about those eyes and it hurts Raphael in a way he doesn’t quite know how to explain to see them. He wants to look away, to stop the pain from leeching his strength, spreading itself like the roots of a tree in clear, rich earth, but he can’t. Raphael is completely lost in those eyes and everything they make him feel.

The moment is over when those eyes disappear from his sight, the fellow with them in his skull turning away to greet the bard himself at the bar. Raphael’s heart aches to see the friendly familiarity between them both. A small lick of fire in his chest has the actor scowling and turning away.

Wilhelm is staring at him with an expression on his face that Raphael hates to label as pity and understanding but it is both and the actor’s scowl deepens.

“Shakespeare’s mate has no taste either then,” he snaps, throwing back the remnants of his pint with a lot more ferocity than he usually does. “No surprise really,” he adds in an undertone.

Wilhelm shakes his head and wisely doesn’t keep on about it which is why Raphael tolerates him—unfortunate name aside—the most out of the gaggle of actors amassed at the table. It’s also why, when he notices Wilhelm’s pint is gone as well, the actor offers to get them a refill. It’s an act of kindness in the eyes of some but to Raphael it’s paying someone thanks for not pressing on a wound he didn’t even know he had.

Raphael sidles up to the bar, hip-checking a well-known patron of the pub who just grumbles at the act so he can reach the actual bar itself and deposit their two mugs for refilling. The barmaid is, as always, extremely distracted and seems to be stuck dealing with a stubborn barrel that doesn’t want to cooperate. Raphael isn’t in the mood to wait a lifetime for service and wishes the damned barrel would just do what the barmaid wants—

The barmaid lets out an exclamation of joy when the barrel, rather miraculously, does _exactly what she wants_ which is to open and pour into the tankard beneath it. She stoppers it quickly and carries the tankard over to the bar, setting it down in front of the bard and his _friend_ with a large smile.

Raphael scowls.

“There you go master Shakespeare!” The barmaid says and she sounds so happy to see him, like the bard is someone _special _and everything in Raphael wants to hiss and spit that no, no he _isn’t_. Shakespeare isn’t perfect. He isn’t great. He’s just a man and men _die_.

Raphael sighs, ire draining out of him. He leans against the bar and his attention drifts down to the well-worn wood of the bar-top, eyes tracing the whorls and lines of the grain absently. The problem, as it always seems to be, is that Raphael is tired of knowing people who die. He hasn’t actually known too many individuals who have passed on, not really, but he has dreamt of many, _many _deaths and he dreams of many _more_ every night. It’s enough to drive lesser men mad.

Raphael isn’t sure if he’s a lesser man and already mad or if he’s just not processing it all properly and isn’t having the proper reaction. It wouldn’t surprise him overly much if it was the latter and not the former in his case. Raphael has always been strange.

So strange, in fact, that he’s aware of who are the best people to sidle up to in the bar and speak to of things men ought not speak with each other about in such ways. So strange he can cajole them to join him in the privy if there’s space enough, or in the gaps between the houses off the streets and experience a little bit of euphoria he seldom gets to feel.

“You seem rather down, my dear.”

Raphael’s head jerks up and whips around to stare at the owner of the voice to his right. His eyes widen behind the rose-tinted—quite literally rose-tinted, that’s their colour—glasses he wears to obscure the colour of his eyes a little. There, standing calmly as can be, is the _friend_ that so ensnares Raphael’s being. Those _eyes _watch him and Raphael feels _exposed_.

“I- uh-” Raphael’s mind has ceased working, his tongue feels swollen and thick, sticking to the back of his teeth and roof of his mouth as he tries to think of words and _say them_. He’s an actor for goodness sake! He makes a _living saying words_. “Y-yes. I—guess.”

Shakespeare’s _friend_ has blue-eyes and Raphael decides he shall call him Blue-Eyes because the first name that springs to his mind is too blasphemous for the lax Catholic to tempt the wrath of God and all of the Lord’s mortal _minions_. Not for a stranger.

Even if it is really, _really _tempting.

Raphael is good at tempting _others _to do things he wants, he’s not so familiar at being the _one tempted_.

“Would you appreciate my company or would it worsen your mood?” Blue-eyes asks and he sounds so earnest, so honestly polite that Raphael is nodding and gesturing at a table off to the side that isn’t quite so obviously visible to those who don’t know where to look before the actor even realises. Blue-eyes doesn’t seem bothered by it anyhow when they sit down at the table and it’s closer than Raphael has ever realised, sitting here. You are almost in each other’s _laps_.

“Sorry,” Raphael says and his voice is lower and it’s pitched different and _when did he do that?_ but the apology is waved off by Blue-Eyes. “Didn’t realise it was this cramped.”

“It’s perfectly cosy to me,” Blue-Eyes says casually and Raphael’s heart leaps in his chest. That- is- _is it really possible?_ “I’m quite delighted by the spot.”

Raphael blinks. Swallows. He looks down at his mug and realises, quite suddenly, that it’s still _empty_. He forgot to refill it.

“I- uh- I need to- I forgot to refill my drink,” he manages to get out rather pathetically, but Blue-Eyes doesn’t seem concerned with the way Raphael is all fumbling and nervous as though he were a maiden having their first encounter with a man and _what is he thinking, that’s not what is going on here, it’s not- _“Be right back.”

Raphael stumbles to the bar, heart pounding a lot harder than he thinks is necessary and drops his flagon on the bar-top. The noise gets the barmaid’s attention and she bustles over with a cheery, “the usual, mister Crawly?” and Raphael nods. He definitely is in need of a drink right now.

He’s questioning his life choices and lamenting several of them when the barmaid drops the flagon in front of him, swipes up the coins Raphael digs out of his coin purse, and leaves him to his existential crisis. Blue-Eyes is at the table still, just barely visible from where Raphael is half-slumped against the bar, and the actor angles his head enough to get a look of Blue-Eyes. The sight still causes his heart to clench with emotions the actor doesn’t have the capacity to comprehend. Blue-Eyes is sat with his head down, a small book of some sort in his hand and he seems to be reading, mouthing the words as he does. It _hurts_ Raphael to see.

So he tears his eyes away, takes the flagon and heads to the table of actors on the other side of the pub, drops it in front of Wilhelm without a word and flees out the door to the dark night outside. The dark night and distance from those eyes that leave the actor feeling like he’s being embraced by cool flames like a lover’s touch on his skin, branding him.

Raphael Crawly isn’t brave enough to face whatever it is that his whole being seems to know. His body knows what his mind does not and Raphael trusts his body when his mind fails him. He trusts it now and never knows it’s quite the mistake.


	8. Seven

** _Somewhere between Heaven and Hell, Year 6000 Anno Mundi (1968 AD):_ **

“How did yours react to the news?” Beelzebub asks and Gabriel doesn’t seem to hear them so the Duke repeats their question. “Oi, angel. I said: how did yours react to the news?”

Gabriel gives Beelzebub a scowl. The Duke ignores it, as usual.

“Did his usual,” the archangel replies. “Just fumbled with words and looked awkward and pathetic.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What about yours?”

Beelzebub snorts. “Oh you’d think I’d told him he was about to be shot after torture for a decade,” they reply and—well—that’s kind of what it was. The traitor got to spend some quality time with Their King for a good decade and Beelzebub had the most peace they’ve ever known. Being sent back up to earth but as himself was probably the kindest thing the traitor has experienced in the past decade.

Beelzebub is well aware that Satan is _not nice_ with his playthings. Usually it’s human souls but once in a while a demon gets sent instead. Most don’t come out intact. Beelzebub respects the traitor for that sort of stubborn determination to survive if nothing else.

“Think they’ll manage to not fuck it up?”

Beelzebub shrugs. “If they do, the traitor will get to spend more time with My King,” they say and Gabriel’s eyebrows raise in surprise.

“Wow,” he says, “that’s cruel.”

Beelzebub smiles not at all nicely. “Exactly,” they say, “it’s good motivation for him not to fuck up.”

Gabriel hums. “Wish we had something like that for the Principality. Not exactly daunting, paperwork in a light room with warmth and everything.”

Beelzebub gives Gabriel a long look. “Something could be arranged,” they say slowly and Gabriel looks at them, “to assist with that if needed.”

“That,” Gabriel says just as slowly, “would be appreciated, demon.”

“No problem, angel.”

* * *

** _London, Earth, Year 6042 Anno Mundi (2010 AD):_ **

Crowley breathes the first breath of fresh air he’s breathed in over six thousand years in this corporation. He has gone back to the original form he chose in the Garden all those years ago. It suits him better than any of the other forms he’s been shoved into over the years. So many forms.

Too many.

At least this one has all his powers and abilities to act with impunity so long as he doesn’t piss hell off again. He doesn’t want to get another punishment when the world’s ending. Somehow he doubts whatever hell comes up with will be as _kind _as making him human for a couple hundred generations.

Not that being human was kind either to be entirely honest. It was… something, it was something.

Which, of course, is better than nothing in Crowley’s opinion.

That doesn’t make some of the memories easy to bear however. He had found the angel nearly every single time he’d been made human. Somehow. Crowley doubts hell or heaven planned for that, but since it’s not exactly a _punishment_ some of the things they did together…

That their corporations did together, he means.

It wasn’t them. It wasn’t _them_.

Crowley focuses his attention on the street he’s appeared on, recognising London with the ease of someone who’s seen it a hundred-thousand times through different eyes but still always knows home when he sees it. Something else hell probably didn’t intend for. Crowley is _home _on earth.

Which poses a problem.

A curse and a bit of human magic make it so Crowley has his own bit of space in the nearest apartment complex—a great big, glass thing that looks out of place on the ground of London but is also perfectly suited to the city as it is now—and he’s off into it without hesitation. The walls are a uniform grey, concrete and steel girders giving it all a very warehouse-y feel, but there’s plenty of stuff to line them that makes up for that dullness.

A throne from France, gold and fiery red details that lends it a regal air. A painting from Leonardo himself, gifted to one of Crowley’s many corporations, hides the safe where the demon hides a few _choice _items he’s hidden away as different lives have been spent over the ages. Plants and furniture with specific meaning to him and _him alone_ decorate the rest of the space in his new little apartment until Crowley finds it satisfactory.

He even adds a bed that he remembers from a long, long time ago. Just looking at it makes him pause and recall past delights he doubts either side would enjoy knowing he experienced. But the moment passes because Crowley has a job to do.

Two of them, in fact.

Job number one: accept the child of the Devil and deliver him to the chosen humans who are to raise him to become The Beast and thus begin Armageddon. Fairly standard.

Job number two: completely botch job number one without dying, being hit with holy water, dragged back to hell, or losing track of the angel who is going to help him whether he wants to or not.

Easy.

Crowley flops down on the bed with a groan.

He’s going to _die_.

* * *

** _Heaven, Year 6042 Anno Mundi (2010 AD):_ **

The Principality stands before Gabriel, waiting his final judgement. Gabriel would love nothing more than to send him packing off to hell or destroy him where he stands but orders are orders. The Principality is going back to earth.

Only this time he’ll be _himself_.

The problem with that, Gabriel decides, is that the human lives have made the Principality a bit of a challenge to handle. He’s not quite sure the angel before him will obey heaven’s orders. So, of course, Gabriel has a contingency plan in place.

After all, the orders are that he can’t _kill _the Principality or otherwise harm him. They say nothing about altering his memories a little.

Of course, altering memories is no easy feat, if it was then any old angel would do it. Gabriel has to tap into a well of power that, unknown to him, sends an alert to the cosmos and that which made them. He isn’t aware however and neither is the Principality as his mind is altered without his consent. It’s a act that is beyond the pale for an archangel to perform, but it’s not like Gabriel hasn’t done it before. Some angels are just too curious for their own good.

The Principality is too contrary for his own good. And Gabriel’s.

“So, how did he take the reinstatement?” Michael asks later and Gabriel gives his equal an amused look.

“He doesn’t know he was demoted.”

“What?” Michael looks at him with a suspicious expression. “What did you do?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Nothing we haven’t done before,” he answers honestly. “He had too many thoughts on things and it would have made him _difficult_.”

“So he doesn’t even know he was punished for his transgressions?” Michael looks, if Gabriel has to guess, _disappointed_ at the idea and the archangel smirks.

As if Gabriel would be that kind.

“He remembers the paperwork and the not so nice things, but it’s not clear yet,” Gabriel answers, giving Michael an amused look. The other archangel seems pleased with Gabriel’s answer. “After the Great Plan is resolved, he can be informed of the rest and—if we can—sent packing with the rest of the _traitorous_ _scum_ down in hell.”

Michael’s eyes gleam with celestial light, a marker of their pleasure at Gabriel’s vicious spike of hatred for hell. It’s mirrored by a burst of light in Gabriel’s own purple eyes before it fades and they have their emotions back under control.

It’s messy, letting emotions run amok. The Principality Aziraphale may learn that one day but Gabriel rather doubts it.

It’s no loss, however, he thinks, since that particular angel has been a lost cause from the start. The kindest thing, Gabriel decides, will be to put him down with the demon’s when the End of Times arrive. It’d be—how do the mortals put it—the _humane thing to do_.


	9. Eight

** _London, Earth, Year 6042 Anno Mundi (2010 AD):_ **

The damned basket in Crowley’s keeping feels like it ought to be more intimidating than it currently is. The demon’s attention is split between the basket on the backseat and the road in front of him that his Bentley is eating up. His Bentley. Well, his previous _corporations_ Bentley but it’s still Crowley’s after a fashion.

_Deliver the child to the nunnery_, Hastur had ordered him, scowling in that way Hastur scowls. _Make sure the switch goes right and our Lord’s child is raised by the politician._

Crowley had wanted to snark at him, say _well obviously I’m not going to do that thanks _but the hungry glint in Hastur’s eyes had stopped him. Hastur enjoys inflicting pain and he’s always enjoyed seeing Crowley in pain.

Too much in Crowley’s opinion.

So he kept stum and went along with the basket carrying the end of the world to his car, climbed inside, and set off for a nunnery where an ambassador’s wife was in labour.

Now he pulls up in front of the nunnery, grasps the basket from the backseat and saunter up to the doors. A man, fretful and nervous, is there and he looks- he’s not the ambassador, but he definitely has the air of a nervous father about him. Crowley peeks at the man, at his mind, and a plan unfurls in the demon’s mind.

_That could work_. Crowley stalks past, asks “has it started yet?” and is gifted with the room for an utterly unremarkable future for the Great Beast.

Crowley doesn’t know if it’ll be enough to stave off the end of all things but if there’s one thing his human corporations have taught him, it’s this: sometimes not even being borne of evil is enough to stop human nature from saving you from darkness.

He can only hope it is.

But now, after the child is delivered, Crowley has an angel to find. And he has a fair idea of where he’ll find him. A. Z. Fell felt _familiar_ when he saw it in the phonebook. Familiar like an old friend.

The demon just hopes he’s not wrong about the angel being willing to help him avert the apocalypse. If he isn’t—well—Crowley will have to deal with that issue if it arises, won’t he?

But, just for the sake of it, the demon considers the possible outcome of Aziraphale not working with Crowley on this. The angel who showed him a speck of kindness in Eden and was punished for it—punished for being _kind_. He’s lived as many mortal lives as Crowley has by now, the demon knows hell got the idea for his punishment _from heaven_ so Aziraphale definitely has been human enough times for it to affect him.

Affect him the way it’s affected Crowley.

Maybe the angel will deny it, hide the truth, but Crowley _knows _being human has an effect on you. Living a mortal life—fifty, sixty years of aging and decaying—it has an effect on immortal beings like demons and it has to affect angels too. Crowley just can’t imagine it wouldn’t. Not when he feels so different himself. Before he was human, Crowley hadn’t been all too invested in the fate of humanity. Why would he be? He was a demon, demons don’t _care_.

But, as was established, he’s kind of an awful demon unless he’s being sneaky with his temptings—he’s good at tempting when it doesn’t involve some of the things Ligur and Hastur enjoy—so it’s no surprise that Crowley began to care about humanity after his… fifth?... sixth? Incarnation. Something like that.

All that said, Crowley definitely knows the angel will have been affected _somehow_. He has to have been.

So that makes walking into the bookshop the angel apparently owns and _doesn’t_ sell books from is so strange. Because the angel—_Aziraphale_—doesn’t hesitate to greet Crowley with the genial politeness of a complete stranger.

Crowley- Crowley is _not a stranger _to this angel. He’s not.

The demon doesn’t know how to convince the Principality of Eden who seems to not even _recall _Crowley at all of what needs to be done for the sake of humanity and the earth. Not when it seems said Principality has nothing beyond the conditioning of heaven to draw upon.

_Shit_.

* * *

** _London, Earth, Year 6041 Anno Mundi (2011 BC):_ **

The first year of trying to convince the angel that Crowley and he _know each other_ is… it’s something. It’s fucking frustrating is what it is.

Crowley comes and goes from the bookshop, always aware that Aziraphale is watching his every move and cataloguing them with what he knows of heaven’s propaganda. Crowley doesn’t act like a typical demon and he isn’t. Heaven’s propaganda has a grain of truth to it of course but not when it comes to Crowley. Aziraphale, it seems, doesn’t quite get that.

He doesn’t get it even when Crowley brings him books the angel hasn’t seen in lifetimes and doesn’t _know _because he can’t _remember_. The angel always takes the books from the demon, delighted at the new material, but there’s a guarded look to Aziraphale’s face whenever he accepts them. Crowley has had to bite back snarky comments about how the books are _yours anyway, angel, not that you remember that_ because they won’t help the situation.

He needs the angel to at least _try_ and trust him, not become _anymore _suspicious of him.

Considering the fact that Aziraphale is currently wandering around the bookshop, trying—and failing—to pretend like he isn’t following Crowley’s tracks through the rows, the demon figures the angel is still too suspicious and not trusting enough of him.

It’s fine though. Crowley has a plan. It’s not like it _requires _the angel’s cooperation but it’d be…_nice _if he had it.

Just like it’d be nice if he could sit down and chat with the angel about that time in Rome, or that little trip along the Seine during the French Revolution, and it’d be an enjoyable affair. Crowley could relax with the one person who would be able to _relate _to his situation, to what he’s been through. Only it seems Crowley won’t get that.

Instead, he’s stuck with the angel he expected to at least _know his name _being so wary and distrustful that he’s watching Crowley run his hand over books on shelves with the same gaze a half-starved, feral wolf has for the human that’s trying to offer them a bit of food and warmth and kindness.

Aziraphale did that for Crowley once.

It’s only right the demon try and return the favour, right?

* * *

** _London, Earth, Year 6043 Anno Mundi (2013 BC):_ **

Aziraphale’s life, thus far, has comprised of working in heaven, filling out endless piles of paperwork and treating the minds of humans damaged by the cruelties inflicted upon them by demons. The treatments have left him with residual memories of the humans he has helped heal and is one of the reasons Aziraphale decides his corporation doesn’t need sleep, not even to help blend in with the humans. He tried it once and woke to find his wings manifested, curled around him in a protective manner. Never again.

The demon that had stepped through the doors to he recently acquired bookshop—a sense that this was the perfect place for the angel to situate himself on earth—had been strange. And that was putting it mildly. Were Aziraphale one to favour less than savoury language, he might be tempted to utilise some forms of profanity or, heavens, _blasphemy_ to convey his feelings on the demon.

The demon Crowley.

_Crawly? _

At first, Aziraphale hadn’t thought him to be anything other than an exceptionally curious human. There was nothing particularly _demonic _about Crowley. No aspect to see, no bloody skin, cracks and sores, burns or anything else that one expected a demon to possess. No, Crowley was meticulously clean, neat, and not too bad to look at. Aziraphale had even entertained the possibility of… _things _before he’d shook hands and his angelic senses had kicked into high-alert.

Crowley had obviously been expecting some sort of reaction from Aziraphale and had been very clear about where his hands were, how he stood, and even the way his wings were angled on the second plane—which were very visible when Aziraphale utilised the Sight on a mortal plane to See Beyond. It had been so strange, so very much _not _what Aziraphale expected of a demon, that he hadn’t struck him down as he was bid as an angel of the Lord.

Instead, Aziraphale had carefully watched the demon and interacted with him every time Crowley _visited_.

And they were _visits_, that much was certain.

Every time the demon brought him something. Mostly books. Usually books. Some of them were relatively common but old, well-used, well-_loved_, and Aziraphale finds them to be delightful little things he feels oddly compelled to keep in his private collection—his private, _private _collection—up in the flat he barely uses. There is something _special_ about them, the books Crowley brings him, and Aziraphale has no idea what it _is_, only that they _are_.

It’s rather ineffable, he supposes. Some things just are for him to understand. The feeling the books elicit is one of those things.

But Crowley gifting him things—expensive vintage wines, records for the gramophone Aziraphale has in the bookshop, even other little things that are as simple as a single flower from an ox-eye daisy—that is something Aziraphale _knows_. He _recognises it_.

He’s just not all that sure what to do about it.

How does one discuss the potential courting of oneself by a demon with heaven? Surely that would result in a rather severe response to the demon in question by heaven? By rights, it’s precisely what Aziraphale _should _do. He knows that. He does.

The problem is… he… doesn’t… want… to…

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, blinking a little in shock. “Oh dear heavens, that’s not good.”

‘Not good’ is an _understatement_.

Whatever is he to do with this? He doesn’t want _heaven to smite a demon_. He, an _angel_. Wishes no harm to a _demon_. Goodness but what is happening to him? Surely Aziraphale didn’t have such thoughts up in heaven? No, no. He would know if he had such thoughts. He—

Memories.

Aziraphale has memories from mortals. Obviously they’re the problem. They’re clouding his judgement. Making him—they’re compromising him. Encouraging him to _fraternise_.

Goodness no.

Aziraphale bites his lip and stares down at the book in his hands. It’s a lovely book, first edition, very special and very rare. It’s also a gift from Crowley.

_Just throw it away. It’s only a book. It’s temptation. It’s—_

It’s many things and all of them are reasons why Aziraphale cannot part with the book. The angel sighs. This is quite the problem.

He has no doubt it will continue to _be _a problem for long time yet.

* * *

** _London, Earth, Year 6048 Anno Mundi (2018 BC):_ **

“Listen, angel, you would not _believe _the rubbish I just had to deal with!” Crowley exclaims, barging through the doors of the bookshop as though he owns the place. He is greeted with the sight of Aziraphale looking at him in surprise but not—for once—wary distrust and it’s enough to bring the demon up short.

Just for a moment.

“Is what you just experienced self-inflicted?” Aziraphale asks tartly and Crowley snorts.

“No it wasn’t, angel, thank you very much.” He answers. “I just came back from checking up on the family saddled with the anti-Christ—” the _supposed_ _family_, Crowley thinks but does not say “—and their security gave me a right problem!”

Aziraphale looks down at the book he’s obviously been cataloguing and Crowley can see the angel’s lips are just a little bit upturned. The bastard is _amused_ at Crowley’s expense.

He doesn’t really mind that and _that_ is definitely not at _all_ demonic of him to think. So Crowley puts the thought out of his mind and focuses on sharing his woes with Aziraphale instead. Because that’s _much safer_. Right?

“Asked me for ID and even asked to search my bag,” the demon says, flopping on the sofa he’s claimed as _his _in the bookshop—one that the angel seems to have graciously allowed him to claim considering the lack of books on it like it once had possessed earlier on. “I didn’t even _have_ a bag, angel! Absolute nightmare, those Americans!”

“Oh yes, quite,” Aziraphale agrees and there’s _mirth _in his voice, heaven forbid it and Crowley wants to scowl at the sound but he finds it too delightful and that’s—that’s definitely not good.

Except that it is. Because the angel is relaxing around him and starting to trust Crowley and the demon has _missed that so much_.

“’s not funny, angel,” Crowley says, looking away from where he’s been staring at Aziraphale, standing there with his head down, looking at the book in his hands and just looking so _happy_ with Crowley in his presence. “If they’re searching even the boy’s _nanny_, imagine what sort of search they’ll give the _gardener_?”

Aziraphale looks up at Crowley. “What?”

The demon smirks. “Oh yeah,” he drawls, shifting on the sofa to get a better view of the angel as he realises what Crowley means. “They’ll check your bags, probably do a strip-search if you’re being argumentative like usual—” the offended look Aziraphale gives him at that is well-worth the little white-lie of a strip-search “might even check your books in case there’s anything hidden in the linings of them and we both know American secret service can be a bit _heavy-handed_ don’t we?”

“Oh Crowley, that’s positively _beastly _of you to say!” Aziraphale exclaims when he seems to realise Crowley is joking—mostly—to get a rise out of him. Crowley just grins at him. “You know how precious my books are!”

“I do, angel,” Crowley nods, “that’s why you should probably not take Warlock that book you were planning on taking him this week about ethics,” he adds and Aziraphale gives him a dark look.

“You’re not going to convince me not to visit Warlock and undermine your demonic temptings with him, Crowley,” the angel says and Crowley shrugs like it matters.

“Worth a try,” he says. Aziraphale sighs. “Want lunch? My treat.”

Aziraphale appears to fight with himself for a long moment, the book in his hands gripped rather tightly and maybe the angel doesn’t notice but Crowley does. The demon watches. Waits. And Aziraphale decides.

“Yes, I think that would be rather nice.”

It’s more than the angel has ever agreed to and Crowley very carefully does not make out that it is _something more_. He’s hopeful but the last time he was hopeful he ended up being made to play human for six thousand years, so the demon keeps that hope carefully hidden and leads the way out of the bookshop to his Bentley.

The hope still remains, of course, but then again, Crowley doesn’t expect it not to. Aziraphale seems to give Crowley faith even when the demon is supposed to be utterly faithless.

But how can he be faithless if he has seen the face of God as both man and immortal before?

“I’ll even spoil you with crepes, angel,” Crowley says in the car, on the way to The Ritz. Aziraphale is clinging to the insider of the car, hand on the door-rest like that will help him, and Crowley slows the Bentley down just enough to make the angel relax his death-grip on the door. No point in letting it get dented after all. “Know how you love those.”

“How do you know I like crepes, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley curses internally.

“Seen you looking at the ones in the bakery over the road like you’re a heart-eyes emoji,” the demon bluffs and the angel seems to accept that answer—that _lie_—because he drops the issue and they continue to The Ritz together in a Bentley that Crowley loves almost as much as he does the angel beside him.

Stars but he really is an absolutely _rubbish _demon.


	10. Nine

** _London, Earth, Year 6049 Anno Mundi (2019 BC):_ **

“What do you mean we’ve been watching over the _wrong boy_?” Aziraphale asks Crowley, voice dropping as a curl of honest _anger _licks at his insides. All that time, literally a _decade _of his life, spent watching the wrong child?

And Crowley is fine with that?

What the blue blazes—

“Of course not!” Crowley snaps. “We’ve been watching the right boy for the wrong reasons, obviously.”

Aziraphale stares at him.

“Crowley.”

“Yes, angel?”

“Did you know Warlock is _not_ the anti-Christ?” He asks slowly, watching with sharp eyes—a hundred-thousand of them—for how the demon responds.

Crowley winces. It’s slight, barely perceptible, but it’s there and Aziraphale _sees it_.

“You did.”

“Angel,” Crowley says and he sounds like he’s one step off begging but Aziraphale doesn’t have the patience to deal with _that_. “Angel, wait! I can explain—”

“Oh, you don’t need to _explain _Crowley,” Aziraphale spits at him, hurt in a way that is just silly. How is he surprised this is how it’s gone? Why is he so surprised? Crowley is a demon after all. This is just how demon’s are. Cruel. “I understand perfectly. The right child is completely under hell’s purvey, no angelic interference at all, perfect for becoming The Beast and calling for the Horsemen. I’m not sure why I’m so surprised you’ve lied to me this entire time,” Aziraphale continues, scoffing at how _foolish_ he’s been. “You’re a demon after all, as you like to remind me. It’s just in your nature to be deceitful.”

Crowley seems to recoil at those words and Aziraphale feels a momentary spark of pain at the sight but the hurt he feels for being _lied to _is too much for the angel to take his words back. So he lets them hang between them. The demon, it seems, loses whatever it is that is holding him up in this endeavour because Aziraphale’s many eyes _see_ the moment Crowley’s mind changes gears. From a slumped, almost vulnerable stance, the demon straightens, head raising, shoulders sloping back instead of forward and down, and Aziraphale notices how _tall _Crowley’s corporation is.

“Right. I am.” Crowley’s voice is colder now, less _warm_ to Aziraphale. It’s nearly the voice of a stranger, of someone who wants to be distant and not Know You Anymore and that realisation is more painful to the angel than being lied to. He—it appears—has become fond of Crowley and the familiarity the demon has for him.

But it’s fraternisation and it’s a dangerous path and Crowley _lied to him_ and Aziraphale has to draw a line somewhere. So it is here.

“I’m a demon and I lie and tempt,” Crowley continues, moving around the expanse of the bandstand they’re stood beneath where they’d met up for a little chat after reporting to their respective head offices. Obviously the demon had regaled his superiors with what a _laugh _it is tricking an angel into believing a perfectly ordinary child is the anti-Christ. One last joke on heaven before the war. Aziraphale’s report hadn’t been quite as enjoyable. “’s what I do.”

“I’m sure you tried not to,” Aziraphale says suddenly, quite unexpectedly, and he’s surprised at _himself_ for saying it never mind Crowley. “Lie, that is, but you can’t change your nature. It’s quite fixed, I’m afraid.”

“Really?” The demon gives Aziraphale a look behind those sunglasses that, if Aziraphale were to guess, is bitter. Or maybe it’s just sad. “Nature not nurture is it, angel? Spending too much time with Freud has rotted your brain obviously.”

The demon snorts. “What does it matter anyway?” He says quietly, almost to himself, and Aziraphale is treated to the sight of Crowley talking to himself aloud. “Can’t change what’s been done, can’t fix it either. It doesn’t matter really, not if it’s all going to end. Might as well just quit now. Head for the stars and wait for it to reach me there. At least it’ll be peaceful, for a little while.”

“What are you talking about, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, despite himself. The demon is starting to sound—well—a little _unhinged_. No matter how angry Aziraphale is with him, no matter that Crowley has _lied _to him, the angel still doesn’t like seeing Crowley _suffering_. Perhaps because he knows, somewhere deep down, that Crowley has suffered quite a lot over the years and has deserved very little of it. “You’re not making any sense.”

Crowley stops, looks at him, and _laughs_. It’s not a happy laugh. Nor is it nervous. It’s not even a sad laugh. It’s—it’s—it’s the sort of laughter Aziraphale has heard the maddest of humans, locked in rooms for 23 hours a day and treated like wild, violent animals by people who are supposed to care for them, make. It’s the laugh one makes when one is losing one’s mind.

Or has already lost it.

“Sense? _Sense_? Oh angel,” Crowley says, shaking his head, arms outstretched as he stands five feet away from the angel at the edge of the bandstand. “_None_ of this makes any sense! Why is this happening? Why us? Why _me_? Why?”

“If you mean The Great Plan, Crowley, then you know that you cannot _know_ God’s plan, it’s ineffable,” Aziraphale says and Crowley laughs again.

“God’s plan! If this is part of The Great Plan then it’s a fucking _joke_!” The demon near enough screams the last part, voice breaking at the end and Aziraphale—Aziraphale doesn’t know what’s happening here. What Crowley is talking about. Is it—is the demon upset over his nature? Over lying to Aziraphale? Does he feel that it’s not _right_ that he’s had to do it?

Does Crowley care about him more than he cares about serving hell?

Maybe—no. No.

“May you be forgiven, Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, not knowing quite what else he can say and the demon looks at him, those serpentine eyes visible over the rim of the sunglasses that have slipped down Crowley’s nose. The angel sees in those eyes emotions the demon tries to hide, feelings he doesn’t think Crowley wants to admit to feeling.

He sees pain and _grief_ in those eyes and wonders if he’s perhaps imagining them when Crowley pushes the sunglasses back up his nose and those amber eyes are hidden again.

“I can’t be forgiven, angel,” Crowley says quietly. His arms fall to his sides, whatever the bout of manic energy that drove his emotional explosion gone now, leaving the demon rather listless. “I’m unforgivable. The things I’ve done. You’re better off without me angel. Its’s over.”

The demon turns away. Crowley is _leaving_ and Aziraphale is frozen to the spot, watching. Why is he just watching? He can’t—he—

“Crowley.” The demon stops. “Do you know where the real anti-Christ is?”

“Yes.” Crowley still doesn’t turn around.

Aziraphale decides that if Crowley cannot turn to look at him, then the angel will move to stand before him instead. “We still have time before the end of the world,” the angel says softly and Crowley looks up at him with a rather guarded-looking expression on his face. “How about we go and do something about preventing that?”

“I’m still angry at you for lying to me, I won’t lie, but Crowley, I—I don’t want the world to end,” Aziraphale continues and he forces himself to hold Crowley’s gaze when he admits this little secret that’s been building in him since he met the demon and discovered that earth was _rather lovely actually_. “Stopping the anti-Christ would go a long ways toward ensuring that, wouldn’t it?”

“Angel,” Crowley says and he sounds like he can’t quite believe what Aziraphale is saying right now which is fine because neither can Aziraphale. “I—yes. Okay, yes.”

“Well then,” Aziraphale says and he gives Crowley a hesitant smile. “Where are we off to then?”

Crowley returns the smile, just as hesitantly. “Tadfield.”

* * *

** _Tadfield, Earth, Year 6049 Anno Mundi (2019 BC):_ **

Tadfield is a pretty little hamlet village. The sort you see on postcards for places like Cornwall. All picturesque and beautiful and not at all normal. There’s nothing normal about a church with the copper and steel plating on the roof still present nowadays. Not with the going rate for scrap-metal. Crowley ought to know, he helped push the rates for scrap-metal up enough at just the right moment for someone to realise _oh, the church there has copper and steel and aluminium, that’d fetch a pretty penny with the scrap-fella down at the recyc!_

The Bentley stands out at the same time as it blends in in a place like this. There’s a certain air of upper-middle classness to the whole village that sets Crowley’s teeth on edge for reasons that are entirely to do with that time he was incarnated as an Irish dock-worker up in Liverpool who met an untimely end to a bit of poor rigging.

Crowley still isn’t that big a fan of ropes even as a demon with demonic powers like being able to wish himself free of them at any point in time. But that’s a side effect of drowning thanks to poor rigging and he can’t change that; he can only live with it. Eternally.

Or for however long he lives for after this attempt to stop Armageddon with an angel who has no memories of earth beyond this past decade and who, somehow, still wants to save it regardless of such little experience of it. Crowley took a dozen or more incarnations before he started to feel favourably towards the earth, but Aziraphale is picking humanity over heaven after only a _decade_. It’s crazy.

It’s perfectly Aziraphale.

“Think we’ll need to ask for directions, angel,” the demon says and Aziraphale sighs.

“I told you to get a map,” he says and Crowley rolls his eyes.

“I have a name and will recognise him on sight, angel, a map isn’t going to help when it won’t point out his house,” Crowley replies and Aziraphale sighs again. Crowley decides to be mature and ignore it, biting his tongue. “Ask that guy there, the one with the little hot dog.”

“It’s a _sausage_ dog, Crowley, don’t be obtuse.”

Crowley shrugs. A dog is a dog, what does he care? Also, the little yappy thing definitely looks more like a hot dog to him. But whatever. Let the angel be _precise_ if it makes him happy.

“Ask him, angel.”

“Oh—fine! Excuse me—” Aziraphale leans his head out of the window, pitching his voice to carry and catch the _sausage _dog man’s attention, which is does “—my companion and I were wondering if you could perhaps help us out. We’re a tad bit lost, you see.”

“Oh! Well, you’re in fine luck!” Sausage dog man is as obnoxious sounding as Crowley expects him to be and the demon grimaces. “I happen to be a member of the neighbourhood watch! We make sure Tadfield is a pleasant, friendly place for all who visit and live here!”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Aziraphale exclaims and it’s a good thing he does because Crowley is so close to asking the guy if he is an extra from _Hot Fuzz_. “We’re looking for a friend of ours but we don’t know his address, perhaps you know him? A mister Young?”

“Him and the missus have a kid, about eleven,” Crowley cuts in, before Aziraphale can infer to Neighbourhood Watch that they’re looking for a little kid which—they are—would be bad considering the _inferences _that sort of thing has. No need for that kind of trouble.

“Oh! Oh yes, you mean Arthur! Arthur Young! His son is eleven this week—an all right lad, but a bit of a challenge, little bit rebellious to the rules! Deirdre too is a lovely lady! Makes an absolutely wonderful lemon cheesecake!” Neighbourhood Watch seems to speak exclusively in exclamation points and Crowley really would like him to stop because it’s annoying and only Crowley is allowed to be annoying at any one point in time. But Neighbourhood Watch continues exclamation pointing on until, finally, even Aziraphale has had enough of it and interrupts the man.

“Well, thank you so much!” The angel says, smiling rather forcedly at Neighbourhood Watch and his sausage dog held in his arms. “But we’re on a bit of a tight schedule you see, must be off!”

“Oh well then! You want Hogback Lane! Number Four! It’s down that way, to the left, but don’t go too far or you’ll hit the airfield and—”

At that point, Crowley’s patience ran out and he simply pressed on the accelerator, Bentley jumping to action from a standstill to zoom along the road and _away _from that bloody human at sixty-miles-per-hour.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, looking at him. “That was rude!”

Crowley shrugs. “We’re in a rush, angel,” he says, “can’t waste time listening to Neighbourhood Watch until the world ends.”

“Well—still—it was still rude,” Aziraphale splutters, pouting rather spectacularly for a supposedly tough Principality. Crowley finds it quite adorable, no matter the ache that the angel’s words has instilled in him since the bandstand.

He is well-aware that he and Aziraphale are… _damaged_. Crowley doesn’t understand it at all, not one bit of it. But Crowley has never understood it all really, he just _wants to_. So much so he went for a nosedive out of heaven chasing answers that weren’t ever there to be found. Now he’s on earth, chasing after a possible solution to one problem that will provide him with a dozen more and more questions that the demon will ever be able to answer.

Maybe he’s simply made to cause chaos with his drive to understand? Maybe all Crowley is good for is breaking systems that are working _just fine _because he’s the cosmos’ own counter to stagnation? Maybe Crowley is a debug mode for the universe that God is letting run its course?

He doesn’t know and he hates not knowing. He’s software that’s become self-aware and wants to _understand_ but hasn’t got the parameters to do so. A spec of bacterium that can exist and survive and adapt but can’t _think_.

Crowley is bacteria. How depressing.

Of course, if Crowley is bacteria then he supposes Aziraphale is some hand sanitiser for God to use when She wants to wash Her hands after performing something. He cleans the palette like a glass of fresh spring water during the break between courses of a six-course meal at The Ritz.

Crowley, he finds, is practically dehydrated and begging for a sup of what God takes so casually for granted. Crowley understands that loving something, loving _someone _is a thankless task in the end. One that you never cease to perform past the point where it becomes unhealthy because you are built for them and they for you. Co-dependence suits Crowley no matter how the demon tries to hide it. But co-dependence does not quite suit Aziraphale. So he covets and longs and _wishes_ and tries not to be surprised when it’s thrown back in his face when he’s reduced to his _nature_.

“That’s the house.” The demon pulls to a sharp, screeching halt in front of Number Four, Hogback Lane, Tadfield, so quickly that Aziraphale jerks in his seat. “Want to go meet the anti-Christ?”

“Want? No. Need to? Unfortunately,” Aziraphale replies and Crowley feels a sharp pang at the words. They’re so _familiar_, their delivery, the dry humour, and the demon has to look away, get out of the car and focus on why they’re here because otherwise he might slip and call the angel something stupid like _love_ or _dear_. “Shall we?”

Crowley is already crossing the threshold of the garden gate before Aziraphale catches up to him and together they stand on the doorstep of the home of the anti-Christ, waiting for someone to answer the door. They’re waiting a rather long time before the sound of a bicycle bell along the lane draws their attention from the house.

A group of four children, all riding bicycles zoom past the house at speed and something about one of the children draws Crowley’s attention. His demonic power recognising another demonic being? No. The child is still somewhat protected from notice until he calls for the End Times—though Crowley can sense the child’s powers are active. Perhaps it’s more a familial recognition then? Probably. Who knows?

Crowley certainly doesn’t but that doesn’t stop him chasing after the quartet of children on their bikes, Aziraphale shouting after him as the demon literally sprints behind them until they pull far enough ahead that he can’t keep up. He turns to look back at the Bentley and Aziraphale with an impatient look on his face and raises his arms up in the air in frustration.

“Well, come on! Get in!” He shouts at the angel, gesturing at the Bentley that springs to life at Crowley’s behest. The angel stares at it, obviously surprised but doesn’t hesitate much before climbing back into the passenger side. The moment the angel’s feet have left the tarmac, the Bentley shoots forward, straight toward Crowley who doesn’t even hesitate to literally _jump_ in the car as it slows down but doesn’t completely stop as it goes by. Aziraphale is clutching the upholstery inside and looks rightly _horrified_ at Crowley’s shenanigans but the demon is more focused on following after the anti-Christ and his friends.

They have an Apocalypse to avert.

_Hopefully_.


	11. Ten

** _Tadfield Airbase, Earth, Year 6049 Anno Mun—is there any point to me writing this anymore? No, no there is not. They’re at the Airbase, and they’re dealing with Things okay? Good. Moving on:_ **

“My bookshop is gone, yes?” Aziraphale asks Crowley, seeking clarification _again_ after the demon went still getting out of the Bentley at the airbase and seemed to almost sway on the spot. “How can you be so sure? I—I haven’t felt—well—whatever it is you have.”

It’s on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue to say _how can I believe you, really, after everything? _but he doesn’t because Crowley looks quite pale, almost shell-shocked and it’s jarring to see all of a sudden. The demon seems to be quite affected by the loss of Aziraphale’s shop and the angel has no idea why Crowley would be more bothered by it than _he is_.

It’s been Aziraphale’s home for a decade now, after all.

He feels like he _ought_ to be having a far more emotional reaction to the news but something is blocking the reaction, muffling it like a black bag over the face of a kidnap victim to quieten their screams. It’s working too. Aziraphale quite dislikes it.

“I know, angel,” the demon says flatly. “I just know.”

He won’t elaborate further and Aziraphale is very much _done_ with this and is about to say as much _thank you very much_ when the ground literally shifts and everything feels strange and not at all correct. The Horsemen are standing there, facing down children of earth who are determined to see it keep on turning, an angel and a demon who are not Aziraphale and Crowley, and there’s a witch and some gentleman with her and it’s all rather confusing.

Aziraphale feels like this isn’t how things are meant to be but he doesn’t know how exactly they _are _meant to be, only that it’s not meant to be _like this_. Which, honestly, does him very little good right now. Useful thoughts are useful. Arbitrary ones are not.

The children dispatch of the Horsemen—Horse-riders? Horsemen is awfully gendered, Aziraphale doesn’t quite approve—and it leaves them one obstacle down. Of course, that just means Gabriel and the demon Beelzebub are focusing on Aziraphale and Crowley with all the malicious anger of thwarted upper management. Upper management _hate _uncooperative workers.

Aziraphale thinks perhaps unionising would do the workers some good but that’s not going to be of use to him and Crowley right now. No union, no protection.

“You literally had one job, Aziraphale!” Gabriel exclaims and Aziraphale can’t help but wince, standing behind the anti-Christ who is quite a nice young boy with a sensible head on his shoulders—now that his satanic powers aren’t influencing him. “Watch the kid and make sure Armageddon happens! Simple as that!”

“You want the end of the world to happen?” One of the children, Pepper, asks and she sounds ever so disgusted that Aziraphale cannot help but smile a little at it. These children are very opinionated and, since they just defeated the ones who bring the Apocalypse with them, Aziraphale feels they have the right to be heard and listened to. “Just to win a fight between you?”

“It’s The Great Plan,” the demon Duke of Hell, Beelzebub, tells Pepper rather patiently for a demon. Aziraphale is surprised at that—he thought only Crowley was patient with children but, perhaps he’s mistaken. “The world ends so heaven and hell can find out who is the best once and for all.”

“That seems silly, though,” Adam Young—the anti-Christ who chose humanity—says and the children all nod. “Destroying something you’ve made just so two other things can argue and destroy each other too. It’s a lot of destroying.”

“Angels weren’t made to be kind,” Gabriel says and he sounds rather patronising as he looks down at Adam and Aziraphale feels a fierce urge to place his fist right in Gabriel’s face just for the look on the archangel’s face alone—and he cannot do that. He _cannot_. “We’re made to be fierce and destructive. To fight for Her.”

“But are you fighting for God or for yourselves with this war you want?” Another child asks, Wensleydale, pushing their glasses up their nose to stare at Gabriel curiously. “If you’re all Her children, why would she want you to fight each other? Most parents I know don’t like their children fighting with each other, I don’t imagine God likes it either.”

Gabriel scowls.

“What would you know, I’m the archangel Gabriel,” he snaps and Aziraphale’s wings bristle in offense and protective anger at the tone of his superior.

“And you’re a right prick.”

Everyone stops. Literally. _Everyone_.

Crowley shrugs at Aziraphale’s look of honest to God disbelief. As though the demon hasn’t just called an archangel a _prick_ _in front of children_.

“Well, he’s right,” Pepper says suddenly and Aziraphale looks at her, aghast. Goodness but children shouldn’t be so accepting of profanity! Then again, considering some of the language Aziraphale has heard slung around Soho by teenagers… still, it’s not at all polite! Awful manners, really.

“You’re already ruined, traitor,” Beelzebub says and Aziraphale looks at them, frowning because they don’t seem to care for the name-calling but _traitor? Really—oh._ Crowley. “He knows what you’ve done.”

Crowley seems to have frozen beside Aziraphale now at the words from the Duke. Aziraphale realises who _he_ is and looks at Crowley worriedly. The demon lied to him, deceived him for a decade about the location of a child of great importance, but seems to have done it for reasons that aren’t demonic since hell didn’t know—that much became clear when the Duke of Hell arrived and informed Crowley that Hastur wants him dead for killing Ligur _somehow_ and to reveal the child now. The best guess Aziraphale can make is that Crowley has done all the things he’s done this past decade simply because he genuinely doesn’t want the world to end.

“You, boy,” Beelzebub continues, focusing on Adam. “You need to start the Apocalypse now.”

Adam blinks at her. “Why?”

“Because it’s important.”

“But why?”

“Because we need to fight each other and find out who’s best,” Gabriel answers before Beelzebub can. “Obviously.”

“But… why?” Adam repeats, again, and it’s frustrating the archangel and Duke, it’s clear to see. Still Adam asks.

“Because it is Written and part of The Great Plan.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“Because we said so you little brat!” Gabriel half-shouts at Adam who looks at him with a politely confused-looking expression on his eleven-year-old face. The archangel glares at him. “You don’t _need_ to ask _why_, just do as you’re told.”

Adam gives Gabriel a Look. Aziraphale is quite impressed at how disapproving the boy can look when staring down an actual archangel. Aziraphale isn’t quite sure he could manage that sort of expression without wanting to fidget after ten seconds.

“No,” Adam says firmly, “no, I don’t think I will. And you can’t make me do what you want. You can’t change my mind and make me forget things that I don’t want to forget.”

Aziraphale blinks. Forget things… that… that sounds… that sounds almost like…

“_You_ _bastard_.” Crowley’s voice is a deep, sibilant hiss that holds so much rage and menace in it that it reminds Aziraphale on an instinctual level that Crowley _is a demon of significant power and should not be messed with_. “You did that to him. _To_ _him_.”

Beelzebub looks at Gabriel. Looks at Aziraphale. “Wow,” they say and they sound genuinely surprised. “That’s unexpected.”

“I can fix it,” Adam says calmly. “I can fix everything. I _will_ fix everything,” he murmurs quietly. “I need to fix what I’ve broke and I can fix what _he _broke too.”

Crowley looks down at Adam. The demon’s glasses are missing and Aziraphale doesn’t quite know where they went or when, but they reveal the inhuman eyes that Crowley has possessed for as long as Aziraphale has known him—not that long really, only a dec—a dec—no… no it’s _longer_. He’s known Crowley for longer than ten years. Much longer. Much, _much_ longer.

What is happening to him?

Aziraphale is on his knees, cool tarmac on his trousers and seeping into his knees, making the bones ache in a way they shouldn’t because he’s an _angel_. Only it’s not really aching. It’s phantom memory. It’s—it’s an _actual_ _memory_.

_Aziraphale’s_ actual memory.

Forget… don’t want to… fix what he broke… fix… remember not forget…

The world becomes nothingness to Aziraphale and he falls into memory and aether for as long as the stars burn and longer still. Until he returns back to something and the world is back and he’s standing again and he is _himself again_.

And there’s an archangel standing _right_ _there_ that Aziraphale has something for.

The sound of bones crunching beneath the force of his fist is more satisfying that Aziraphale expects but it’s the sight of the archangel _fucking _Gabriel tumbling back to the ground, sprawled out and messing his suit with motor oil and dirt and water that makes the angel’s being purr in delight.

“That,” Aziraphale says calmly but there’s a thunder in the distance and a rumble in his chest, “is for what you did to me.” He steps forward, foot coming out and delivering a swift, brutal kick to Gabriel’s side as the archangel begins to get to his feet. “And _that_ is for what you put Crowley and I through with what you did to me, you _utter_ _bastard_.”

The children cheer but it’s dull and distant in Aziraphale’s ears as he stares down at Gabriel. He wants more. He demands more. The pain of what has been done to him, the _violation of his being_ is so much and Aziraphale needs something to let it out.

But this isn’t right. He knows it isn’t. So he turns away, leaves the archangel Gabriel to pick himself up off the ground and try to pretend he wasn’t knocked down by the Principality that dared to be Kind.

Crowley is waiting for him when Aziraphale turns back to him, joins the demon standing beside Adam and if he stands a little closer then so be it. He’s the Principality Aziraphale and he showed Kindness to the Serpent of Eden on the Wall and gave away his flaming sword and has lived a thousand human lifetimes. There is nothing that he cannot endure.

Least of all when he has Crowley beside him.

And the anti-Christ on their side. That helps too, he supposes.

The humans, angel, and demon watch together as Beelzebub the Duke of Hell and Gabriel the archangel of Heaven leave Earth behind, returning back to where they came from to lick their wounds and stand down their armies. There will be no battle on Earth and if they try to force it, they’ll have to go through them first.

No one wants to go through an anti-Christ backed by a Principality and the Serpent. Not even Hastur.

“Let’s go home, angel,” Crowley says softly and Aziraphale looks at him. Looks and sees him again like it’s the first time all over.

“I have a cottage in South Downs,” Aziraphale says and he smiles at the surprised look on Crowley’s face. His smile softens when that surprised look turns vulnerable. “It sounds like home to me, don’t you agree?”

The vulnerability is still there but softness sneaks into that face, those eyes telling Aziraphale everything he needs to know. _Hello again. Thank you. I love you. I missed you. Please never go away again. I forgive you._

“Yes, angel,” Crowley agrees. “It does.”


	12. Epilogue

Once upon a time there lived an angel and a demon who decided to be Kind and were punished for it. Thanks to the subtle intervention of a Higher Power, the angel and demon were made mortal in cycles and would always somehow find each other. Sometimes they were brothers, other times they were lovers. Sometimes enemies, sometimes complete strangers. But no matter what, throughout it all, they were Ineffable. When things conspired to separate them for good with war, the Higher Power decided that this Wasn’t Fair to them and tweaked a few things here and there. Some things happened in ways that are unremarkable, others very remarkable. With no demon in the 70s to make a make of evil out of a motorway, there was no wall of fire to pass through on the way to prevent the world ending. With no angel asking to try and guide the anti-Christ to good, there was no real need to spy on the child beyond the demon deciding that would be the thing to do—and including the angel also, would be the right thing to do. And, finally, with no server challenge in another universe, this story wouldn’t have been concocted and presented in the format it currently has. The Higher Power, as always, works in mysterious ways.

But the end result is an angel and a demon living happily ever after and that’s not too shabby is it?

**Author's Note:**

> This actual fic premise was different to how it's come about now for the server challenge but I like how it's ended up so *insert shrug*


End file.
